


Sorrow for Sin

by Wenzel



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Mafia AU, Mutual Pining, RoadTrip!, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-06-17 08:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 90,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15457737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wenzel/pseuds/Wenzel
Summary: Everyone’s done something they regret. As mobsters, Keith and Shiro’s lists are a little longer than most. In New Meridian, a city of stars and fortune, they can forget about what happened before they met; all that matters is the now. But fortunes don’t just rise in the underworld, and when they find themselves on the run, desperate for help, their secrets matter more than ever.Mafia AU for the Sheith Reverse Bang!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings for violence, explicit sex, child abuse, drugs, violence against children, racism, homophobia, death by fire, and gore.**
> 
> This was written for the Sheith Reverse Bang in partnership with Mondaijo on Tumblr, who's done some incredible art for the story! You can find them at mondaijo.tumblr.com and myself at the-wenzel.tumblr.com.
> 
> Sorrow for Sin will update every two days. <3

It might, however, be easily shewn that the mere sorrow for sin because of its consequences, and not on account of its evil nature, is no more acceptable to God than hypocrisy itself can be. - Charles Buck

 

* * *

 

The rain washed the gutters clean. Gunk fell down from the pipes and splattered over the edges. It turned their balcony--barely big enough for a single chair and side table--into a mottled mess. Keith grimaced from the bed. New Meridian had been plagued by rain for the past three days. No one would call it unusual, not with the city being right in the Pacific Northwest, but they would call it a problem.

For Redmond Markets, it meant that flooding was a concern. They were right on the shore along the docks, and from where their building was, Keith heard the crash of waves and the sounds of people yelling. When he’d cared to look, he’d seen people’s cars flood and their boats sink. Now, though, he had a warm cigarette between his fingers, the sound of rain thundering down, and a cut along his thigh that he didn’t know quite what to do with.

For now, he’d wrapped it in a towel almost-tourniquet. Crimson beaded along the ragged edges. The knife had cut in one swift strike, but that came from force: the knife itself had been jagged and rusty, grabbed from a pile of refuse in the chemist’s lab. Keith had stuck it through the man’s throat after.

The vengeance didn’t get rid of the risk for tetanus or infection. Keith had cleaned it with vodka. The other Lions had cringed and squirmed, eventually leaving when he investigated the wound for shards of rust. Pidge had tried to ask after booster shots. Keith had given her a shrug in reply.

New Meridian’s health system functioned like the wild did. The weak either healed or got eaten. For Shiro and Keith, that meant spending money to overcome the norm. Keith already had the materials to sew the cut shut, but part of him wanted to wait for Shiro. Someone would need to help him juggle the container of dental floss and the needle.

“Stop being a coward,” he muttered. He stubbed out the cigarette and lifted his leg on to a chair opposite. The lamps barely lit the dark walls. The gold light gleamed off the thin needle Lance had bummed off the old woman who pretended to run the building.

On paper records, it said Blue Hill Apartments belonged to Reeda Monroe. Go up the chain enough, through shell corporations and lawyers, and you’d find it was owned by the Althea Corporation. Knowing that meant one of three things: you worked for Althea, you were one of their high-ranking enemies, enough to afford protection; or you worked as a commanding footsoldier for the Kingdom.

Still-smouldering cigarette clenched between his teeth, he threaded dental floss through a clean needle. He’d sterilized the needle in the vodka too and swiped the floss from Lance. “I don’t want to know,” Lance had said when he asked. “I just--I suspect and I don’t want to.” After, he’d closed his door in Keith’s face.

Keith mulled over telling him to go fuck himself, that Keith had taken the cut while bailing Lance’s ass out of getting a rusty knife to the back, but Lance didn’t live on gratitude. The thoughts didn’t distract him as much as he wanted when the needle pierced a flap of skin. He hissed, low and sharp; the cigarette kept his teeth from grinding.

“You should have waited,” Shiro said when he got back. A little bottle of antiseptic was in his hands. Keith eyed it from where he sat. His wound no longer gaped: silky strands of dental floss stretched from just above his kneecap to his upper thigh. “I said I wasn’t going to be gone long.”

Keith shrugged. He stretched his leg out. While the floss pulled, it wouldn’t restrict movement too much. He’d done a decent job, he judged. If only it wouldn’t have raised questions to go to the hospital. Getting injured had been one mistake among many. He shouldn’t have used the knife that injured him to kill the chemist. They’d needed to make an example of him, and the chemist now hung from the front window of his apartment. The knife had been tossed in a dumpster five blocks away, but if anyone found it, they might connect it to the strange blood that didn’t belong to the chemist.

Keith stuck his hand out for the antiseptic. “Was he making Stardust?”

“For the Empire,” Shiro said. He handed the bottle over, his eyes focused on Keith’s haphazard sutures. “I had Hunk bring in the dock workers. We cleared it out--it’s Kingdom property now.”

It’d be on the streets within days. That the Empire had been stupid enough--or brazen enough--to think the Kingdom wouldn’t notice drug labs in the docks still amazed him. The docks were where the Kingdom had started, after all. The entire west coast of New Meridian belonged to the Kingdom. Redmond Markets was the heart of it all, and the chemist had been operating there. Keith had broken his kneecaps for doing it near his favourite pizza place.

Would the cops have his DNA from the knife,, mixed among the chemist’s own blood? Maybe. But then the place had been left with the Lions’ signature: Lance had tagged it with graffiti. Everyone would know it was a Kingdom hit, that the Lions were hunting again. The cops would figure out why when they saw the grime in the lab. While it’d been cleared of equipment and product, the Kingdom never bothered to hide what the problem had been.

Keith poured the bottle on to his leg, using the towel to mop up the fizzling liquid. “The Empire’s going to be pissed.”

“They deserve it.” Shiro sat on the bed and rubbed his face. It’d been a late night the evening prior: there’d been movements further north, around the slums. “They should know who Redmond belongs to.”

“I don’t think they care.”

Shiro shrugged. “A few more hits like this one, and they might start to.” He reached over to the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. The smoke smelled of tobacco and clove. “... You need to be more careful.”

Keith grimaced as he pressed the towel against the sutured wound. “If I hadn’t dove in, Lance would have a knife sticking out of his back.”

“There were other ways to stop that than throwing yourself in between them.” Shiro didn’t press, though. Instead, he leaned over to eye the reddened flesh. “If it isn’t healed over in three days, I’m getting Xcelerant.”

Keith’s grimace turned to a wince. He hated the drug--it was meant to simply boost the healing process, but the side effects were brutal. Nausea, fever, dizziness, even hallucinations. It sped the body up like speed or cocaine. It was one of the Althea Corporation’s big discoveries.

“At least we’d get it for free,” Keith muttered. He pushed himself to his feet and began to flex his leg. A hand pressed against the dip of his back. A thumb brushed over his skin, rubbing at knotted tension. Keith said nothing about it as his breathing eased. Shiro was annoyed, but not furious, then. “I should check the feed, shouldn’t I?”

“You should,” Shiro agreed. His hand remained on Keith. “It’s important.” _But not as important as this_ went unsaid.

Moments passed. Their interruption came in the form of Hunk. A swift knock at the door roused Shiro. Keith grabbed a shirt and yanked it over his head. Shiro, at least, still wore a sharp suit. It looked strange in a room of chipped furniture and a low-hanging mattress that rested on crates.

Hunk wore a similar suit--dark brown to Shiro’s black, accented with yellow instead of purple, but well-cared for and tailored. He looked exhausted. “The shipment’s moved to Brighton Gardens.” He scratched at a stubbled cheek. “Pidge says the Empire’s already talking about taking it back--she’s hooked into the one of their officers’ phones, one who’s calling in everyone she knows. Even some of the smaller gangs. They want to prove a point.”

Shiro reached over to the dresser. Inside the rows of drawers were guns of every make, tasers, batons, even knives. “We meet them then,” he said briskly. “Pidge can coordinate from here. I want every group along the coast there. The Empire’s become too brazen.”

Hunk gave a slow nod. “I haven’t heard of any strikes, so they should be able to come.” He left the doorway, vanishing into the halls. They all lived on the third and op floor. Blue HIlls Apartments was a square box surrounded by a thin trail of struggling flowers and bushes. Most of the property’s space was devoted to a small paved parking lot for residents, and a basement which could act as a panic room.

Nobody outside of the Kingdom’s upper echelons knew the building operated as the Lions’ base. If the residents did, they never would haave signed on to live there. Even their closest neighbours didn’t understand why there were a dozen empty rooms between them and the Lions’ side of the hall. They simply thought the Lions were involved in shady business: smugglers, maybe, or addicts.

The distance didn’t just protect their neighbours. It protected the Lions too. The Empire would bomb the residence or send a hit squad within a day of knowing their location--Keith didn’t doubt it. The thought sometimes troubled his nightmares, but they all played it safe enough, didn’t they?

That thought haunted him as he pulled on his clothes. His usual pants were slashed by the rusted knife, so he dug out new ones. His colours were closer to Shiro’s than anyone else’s: Hunk was dark brown and yellow, Lance wore indigo and navy, Pidge wore green and grey, and Keith wore red and charcoal. They were colour coordinated for the sake of presenting a professional face.

They were, after all, the final step before Althean officials became involved. Keith buttoned his waistcoat with nimble fingers. Before he pulled on his pants, he wrapped a fresh dish towel around his weeping wound. Three knots secured it in place. After that, he armed himself: each Lion had a speciality, and Keith was no different.

Shiro enjoyed fists, a baton, and a heavy Glock. Keith, though, preferred knives, explosives, and a Beretta pistol. Magazines were stored in breast pockets. Keith, for the big hit, tucked away a single grenade. They were always good for flushing people out of cover.

They never parked their car in the apartment building’s parking lot. It begged for someone to rig explosives or even just recognize the vehicle. Regular cars went into the parking garage a few doors down; their work car, a hulking armoured black SUV, waited in the basement of a nearby parking garage which was, unsurprisingly, another Althea holding.

There was a tunnel between the building and the parking garage. Before the Lions had lived there, it’d been a base for a more blatant Althea hitsquad. When New Meridian had decided it wanted the facade of orderliness, Althea had scrubbed the west side clean of its influence in name. Graffiti tags were lions now--not the corporate logo. The average person figured Althea had been replaced, but it’d really become another incarnation.

Masks were carried along to the elevator in a duffel bag. In the basement, the lights were shaky and the floor cluttered, but memorization and phone flashlights guided them to the rusty door. A ten minute walk through a damp tunnel brought them to parking garage.

Keith always drove. It wasn’t that the others couldn’t, but that Lance needed to keep watch on the surroundings, Hunk had to work with Pidge’s coordination, and Shiro juggled a thousand different messages, some from Althea, others from tribute gangs. As they worked around him, Keith hit the roads, going just fast enough to get them where they needed to go without police notice.

“We’ve got seven replies along the coast,” Pidge reported from the SUV’s systems. Her voice pumped in from the speakers. “I’m guessing we’ll get maybe forty people. Junmin says the Empire’s been harassing those paying protection in Chinatown, so he’s got quite a bit to say to them.”

“What about Las Mariposas?” Lance cut in. He was peering from the windows, his rifle in hand. “I heard from Noelia that the Empire’s been trying to steal their dock workers. She’s been breaking noses and legs, but they don’t get the message.”

“She’s offered a dozen, so long as--and I’m quoting here--we ‘take their balls off’.” Pidge winced. “She’s pretty mad, guys. Try not to lose a Butterfly.”

“Noted,” Shiro said. He pored over a faint hologram. “Send a message over the FFC system in ten minutes. Let the Empire know where the drugs are. They haven’t struck yet, so they must be trying to track us.”

The FFC system was a strange system. Along the docks operated a chain of food trucks. Known as ‘Fish Food’, it was wildly popular and run by a former Redmond hitman. To the average person, the trucks were welcome and typical. To anyone within the Kingdom, though, they knew to look at the signs the trucks had on their sides.

The code was simple, at least. HOOK, LINE, AND SINKER meant all was well. CATCH OF THE BAY meant things were _not_ well, and when combined with a location on a the neon sign in the windows, directed the Kingdom where the trouble was. It wasn’t a hard system to crack, and most of their enemies knew what the FFC system meant.

Which was fine, really. It was more to direct Kingdom people around so that the unarmed wouldn’t walk into a fight. Now, though, it was going to funnel the eager Empire towards Brighton Gardens. Following the mass of trucks shipping around Stardust wouldn’t be difficult. Upside for the drivers, he mused: they’d be congregated around a warehouse meant for surplus nuts and bolts. The Stardust would be guarded, the drivers shepherded to a nearby depot, and their trucks protected by hardened fighters.

The call from Allura was inevitable. It clicked in and her voice came in as a winter wind. “Keep them away from the grey building when you fight.”

Shiro looked up from the hologram of the warehouses. “That has weapons imports?”

“That,” Allura said, “and new trial pharmaceuticals. I’d prefer to not have to explain to shareholders what happened to them.”

“Understood, Miss.” Shiro adjusted something in the hologram. Keith only saw it from the corner of his eye. “You’re in a safe room?”

“I’m at home,” she replied, “holding a dinner for investors. You know the protocols for alerting me of the danger, and I trust you to use them wisely. Do try not to tag the building: it will only make the police’s job easier.”

Lance laughed. “I’ll put away the spray paint then, Princess.”

“Miss Althea,” Allura corrected, but her voice was soft. “Now, the hors d'œuvre are being brought out, so that means appearances demand I go. Do not make the news tonight, is that understood? There are announcements from the corporation coming.”

The line went dead. Lance’s dreamy look would have earned him a punch in the shoulder from Pidge if she’d seen it. “Head in the game,” was all Shiro said. That, and a quick nudge from Hunk brought Lance back to reality.

They passed through a half dozen other gangs’ territories, all pawns of the Kingdom, before they reached Brighton. The district was infamous for its shadiness. Rows upon rows of warehouses lined tangled streets. Stolen shipments and smuggled goods were known to vanish down side-streets that no map listed. The police cursed the place, but they more so cursed the wily drivers who infested Brighton.

Everything was painted tones of washed-out greys and grody browns. Some warehouses had windows lining their flat sides; others were sealed like tombs. The tallest stretched for only a few stories. A handful had signs--those that did had generic company names, many of them shell companies for Althea. ‘Green’s Shipping’, ‘Odyssey Transport’, even ‘Shipping Xpress’ were a few of the names offered. Odyssey Transport’s sign hung askew above a grimy metal door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.

Brighton’s shady areas gave way to something respectable three-fourths of the way to the next district. In a sea of used hypodermic needles, overflowing trash, and buildings whose only care came in the form of rainwater, the area edging toward Harrowfield looked like paradise. People joked that the only place ‘Gardens’ applied to was the border with Harrowfield.

Keith figured it was more an observation than a joke at this point. Maybe Brighton hadn’t always been a dump--before the gangs, before the Shadow Dynasty of corrupt mayors and city councils, before Meridian had been _New_ Meridian. And that part of the Gardens proved what it could have been.

Neat, organized streets threaded between rows of new warehouses. Their signs and paint declared connections to a hundred different corporations, some Fortune 500, others local kings and queens. Althea had its official warehouses by Harrowfield, almost right on the border; it put them close to Althea’s offices. Gardens, docks, and clean swept streets defined the border.

It wasn’t the border they were going to. In the heart of Brighton, the streets turned to a series of one-ways and lanes. Signs vanished. Graffiti covered the buildings: to gang members, the code was simple to read. People staked out their territory in spritzes of blue or shocks of white. The Kingdom’s holdings were marked in a loop of blue and gold.

The building they were after had been swarmed by trucks. Dock workers hauled things around, sometimes using forklifts, sometimes using nothing but their muscles. Most of the product had been shifted inside, but the remaining packages were being hurried away from the trucks, sometimes by Kingdom soldiers.

The battleground warehouse had crumbling wood sills and a mass of what used to be white siding. Large windows were cut into the white, but most were smashed now and covered in plastic sheets. Any sign or emblem had long since been washed away by rain and wind.

A few warehouses down was a pallid grey building--likely the one Allura had mentioned. “Pidge,” Keith asked, “what’s the Empire’s ETA?”

“You have about ten minutes. They’re gathering just outside Harrowfield.” Pidge’s voice rattled off numbers and areas with clinical precision. “The drones haven’t been noticed yet, and the spies have a lot to say. But play it safe, guys--they’re moving some major artillery.”

They passed the ten minutes with terse orders and grunts. Keith and Hunk helped unload the trucks, finishing off the transfer in five minutes. Lance went to the top of the warehouse and settled in with a rifle. He chattered over the communication line, only silenced by Pidge’s breathless voice. Shiro set up the defenses.

“It’s not going to be a hit,” Shiro had said. “I want this to be an extermination. Half of them dead at least. Then everything gets shipped back out, or this building is torched. Better we have no product than give the cops anything.”

Shiro stationed Keith on the ground level right beside him. The bulletproof vests they wore had the thinness of cotton, yet Keith had seen for himself how well they stopped a bullet. They crouched and hid behind doors and crates. The product was packed far in the back--where dock workers already scrambled to load it on to other passing trucks. It’d take hours at the secretive pace they worked at.

“They’re turning onto Hart Lane,” Pidge announced. “They still don’t know we’re watching. I’d guess there’s twenty cars. Everyone’s armed.”

“Closest police car?” Keith asked.

Pidge tapped at her keyboard. “Around Harrowfield. Everyone’s cleared out of Brighton--I don’t know if it’s a tip from one of us or the Empire.”

“Not us,” Shiro said. The silence that followed turned grim. “It won’t save them. Hunk--you have the ARs?”

“Las Mariposas took five of them. I think they’re blowing kisses at Lance.”

Lance burst on to the line. “They’re organizing an attack from above--”

“While blowing kisses at you,” Pidge finished. “I’m watching you on a drone, Lance, and I saw that wink. If you come back with lipstick on your collar, I’m shutting down the washing machine and dryer.”

Keith could almost hear Lance’s frown. The argument stopped there, though, as the roar of distant vehicles became clearer. Pidge’s countdown loomed like a guillotine’s blade. Keith pressed himself tighter behind the concrete barrier. The cars and SUVs the Kingdom had come in were parked far away--far enough that it’d taken a run to get back in time.

They had thirty-nine people. A dozen Mariposas, five from Chinatown, another dozen from the Lions’ own soldiers, and then ten tossed in from other gangs. They’d underestimated the Empire’s force, Keith thought. Pidge had reported a stream of Empire soldiers coming. The Kingdom had the advantage of home turf and setting up the ambush. The Empire, though, had numbers, possibly weapons advantage too, and had to know at least some of the Kingdom was waiting.

“Their ETA is one minute,” Pidge said. “I’m seeing heavy weapons--if you barricade, they’ll blast the door down.” She hesitated. “I’m not sure this is a good hold point, guys.”

“Let’s give it a try,” Shiro said, calm as a placid lake. “We can retreat through the back if it comes to it.”

 _We won’t have to_ Shiro didn’t say. But he didn’t need to. Keith knew that if the Kingdom ran, they’d lose pledged gangs, they’d lose the respect from the rest of the city, and they’d lose several million dollars in product. Either they punched a hole through the Empire, or it came back to bite them in the ass.

“Thirty seconds.”

It was always around then that the details of the plan became fuzzy. Adrenaline rushed through him, crashing like an ocean’s waves, washing away thoughts and plans. They left behind imprints, like footsteps in sand; if given time, they’d fade completely. Lance was up top, but where was Hunk? Were Pidge’s drones armoured or armed?

His eyes locked with Shiro’s. The building’s overhang put them in shadow, but it only emphasized the darkness of Shiro’s eyes. It was only them behind the barrier; the other one had the Lions’ soldiers. Some of them were awestruck--one kept eyeing Shiro’s muscles and flexing his own.

The hero worship was natural. It was usually directed at Hunk for his build, Shiro for his muscles, Lance for his bravado with women--rarely Keith, but then Keith was strange to others. Too quiet, too slender, a little too _unstable_. He’d heard it all before.

Shiro, though. Shiro was a leader crafted from steel and quenched in blood. Admiration was expected. This close, Keith ached to brush a thumb over Shiro’s cheekbone. A quick kiss, he thought, before the cracks and bangs of guns and grenades rained down, deafening him.

Shiro caught his gaze and smiled. It was one of the quiet smiles he saved for Keith, and Keith met it with a faint half-smile that vanished when he thought anyone watched. Shiro leaned forward.

“Blue building after this,” Shiro murmured. “While they move the Stardust.”

Keith raised a brow, but he didn’t press. The first car roared around the corner a mile down. A parade of heavily armoured SUVs followed. His Beretta burned in his hands. Twenty cars: at most, that meant a hundred people. A more reasonable number would be in the sixties.

“Lead car has Sendy,” Lance said over the line. “I can put a bullet between his eyes if you want, Shiro.”

“Not yet.”

Guns jabbed out of the cars’ windows. They were searching for anyone peering out or ready to jump them. “I’m guessing they have sixty-five,” Pidge was saying, but the news went unremarked on. “I think--” She cut off. “I’ll reroute the police further away.”

Keith read the nerves in her voice. She’d been part of the Lions for a year, but rarely brought into action. With her small frame, lack of endurance, and unhoned skill with a gun, she was a liability on a battlefield. She needed to get accustomed to death in a way a Lion should be. He gave it five months before she reached that point.

“Lance,” Shiro said, “take out the third car. Hunk, I want you to tear them to pieces: the rest of them can crawl over the corpses to get to us.”

“Metal,” Lance said approvingly. “Brace yourselves, guys.”

Keith’s legs tensed. A suppressor turned the sharp bark of Lance’s rifle into a dull, echoing bang. The first shot ripped into the third car’s tire. The second slammed into the windshield, sending spidery cracks through it. The third took out a final tire.

The driver overcompensated. The fishtail Lance’s shots sent them into was a whirling spiral. The cars behind them were forced to brake--and those that failed slammed into the spinning car, creating a pileup. Sendak and his lieutenants’ cars escaped the mess. Shiro had aimed Lance well, Keith thought: he’d found the antsy driver, the protégé who probably didn’t know what they were doing.

“Hunk,” Shiro called. The front two cars screeched to a stop in front of the building. A dozen feet away, Hunk and his soldiers slammed open windows and doors. Full automatic barrels jabbed out. Bullets rained down on the stopped cars. Blood splattered over shattered glass. The smell of gunpowder rushed down the street, accenting the screams and cries of Empire foot soldiers. Keith tasted copper on the air.

The advantage of surprise didn’t last. Some of the Empire escaped the initial volley, throwing themselves into the street and bolting for cover. Others had vehicles whose armour held, despite the Kingdom’s military-grade weapons. And for Sendak and his cars, they tried to reverse and help their foot soldiers.

“Go,” Shiro’s voice said both in Keith’s earpiece and beside him. The adrenaline faded. In its place came eerie calm. He breathed once, twice, then rolled from behind the barrier, his Beretta raised.

Sendak’s two cars had held a dozen people. Some were fresh-faced prodigies whose worth was about to be tested; others were scarred and tattooed, recognizable to Keith from past scraps. Keith aimed at a wizened yet young woman and fired right at her head. Brain and blood rained over the protégés.

He didn’t linger. He _charged_. In his left hand, he drew a knife. Ducking down, he lunged for vulnerable guts. His blade sliced through one man’s skin. It peeled back, and offal began to pour forth. Behind Keith, other soldiers rose. Shiro dove in beside him, brass knuckles at the ready,  his Glock in hand.

Further down the street, the fight had turned to sniping from shelter. Lance crowed over the headset. Between them, Pidge rattled off the locations of each holdout, who was in them, even the best angles of attack.

A shadow loomed over Keith’s shoulder. He threw himself into a roll as a hand sailed down, aiming for his spine. Shiro snarled. Sendak went staggering away out of the corner of Keith’s eye. Keith took the chance to dart between a pair of women. They were aiming at Lance’s nest; Keith stabbed one in the spine, and shot the other twice in the chest.

Blood soaked his suit. It joined his leg’s own weeping gash. Pain ripped at him when he moved, and he thought he should have brought pain medication to the fight. It slowed him--enough that, when he slammed into a brick of a man and staggered back, it sent him into a fall as the leg gave out.

He jerked his head up to meet the eyes of a hulking, dour-looking man. His knife skittered away, forgotten in the force of the collision. The man’s eyes were feral--rage spread over his face, vicious and bloodthirsty. The man raised a sawed-off shotgun.

Things moved slower when you’d been knocked about. He knew the man had raised his gun in less than a second. His leg refused to let him stand, so he didn’t try to stand. Instead he threw himself to the side, lifting his own gun. He aimed for right between the man’s blue eyes.

He moved too fast for the man to keep up. A slug blasted into pavement. By the time the man realized he hadn’t hit Keith, a bullet ripped his head open.

Keith needed to get up. He was a sitting duck on the ground. But he couldn’t stand without some time. He tried jump up under his own force of will, but his leg gave in. “Lance!” Keith snapped.

“What--? Oh.” A woman to his left fell in front of him. “Go crawl and drag yourself up. You owe me a beer after this.”

Keith grit his teeth. He didn’t crawl. Sitting on his ass, he stretched out his bum leg and situated his good one’s foot flat on the pavement. With a deep breath, he used a single leg to push himself up. Someone lashed out at his neck from the side, but Lance nailed them in the leg, sending them sprawling.

Keith limped away from the fray. Weaving and ducking, he hit two people pointblank--one in the lower half, another in the arm. He caught a glimpse of Shiro and Sendak brawling. Blood poured from Sendak’s nose; Shiro had a gash over his arm; even his prosthetic looked battered. Keith raised his pistol to take a shot at Sendak, but the pair collided again, their bodies tangling and hiding any decent shot he could have taken.

 _Fine_ , he thought. “Hunk,” Keith said. “You need backup?” His leg spasmed underneath him.

“They’ve got us pinned in the cannery,” Hunk said. “If you can get here, we need someone to push their position.”

It’d be a good use for his grenade. “On my way.” He couldn’t run, and some Imperial soldiers were huddled behind the armoured cars, but he breathed deep and hobbled to a jog. His leg threatened to give, but he pushed and pushed until he got from the thick of the fighting and found new concrete barricades, this time in front of a clothes depot.

The Empire’s siege came from the depot’s second floor window. They’d shattered the window and poked their heads out between tossed grenades. While Hunk’s soldiers had to duck, their shelter was shredded. Hunk had nothing to reply with--but Keith did.

Keith got to the entrance. The grenade felt light in his hand as he cradled it, screwed up his arm, and let it fly. The Imperial soldiers had lobbed a pipe bomb at Hunk’s position--and they’d lined up perfectly to take shots at the ensuing explosion. It also lined them up perfectly to eat his grenade in the face.

A second passed. His grenade detonated. Gore sprayed out the window. Someone began to wail. Hunk and his soldiers burst out of their cannery, guns raised, shields up. Keith slunk into an alley, but Hunk spotted him. The thumbs up looked out of place, Keith thought, but it was appreciated.

He ignored the sounds of death as he rolled up his pant leg to see trails of blood. The dark crimson stained his neat white socks. He pressed a forefinger at the dish towel he’d wrapped around his cut. It was sopping wet and mushy. He grimaced. He couldn’t take his pants down and scrub his leg--both because he didn’t have anything to clean it with, and because he’d be embarrassed right to Hell’s obsidian gates if he got killed with his pants around his ankles.

He let the trouser leg fall down and pushed himself up to his feet. Several cars were struggling to break free of the pileup. One was driven by a burly woman, her crew in the back as she smashed a sleek sports car out of the way. She used an alleyway to turn around. Keith took a half-hearted shot at her tires, but she revved the engine and blasted away. Marks from the tires were imprinted on the concrete.

The police would have to lose that evidence, he thought. If Allura was feeling spiteful, she’d hand it over to the FBI, just to see who among the Empire they’d hang for the bloodbath. When the streets were quiet, Keith limped from the alley. Bodies lined the streets. Some of the wounded had been rescued by fleeing Empire soldiers, but most lay dying.

“Send out cleanup,” Lance said. “I’ll cover them.”

“You still have ammo?” Hunk asked. He snorted. “I knew you weren’t pulling your weight.”

Lance’s smirk somehow managed to feel almost audible. “Nah, that’d be Keith. I saw you in the alley, Mullet.”

Keith stiffened. “Focus on the job.”

“Whatever.”

Shiro waited by the blue building already. The smell of plastic wafted out, mixing with blood and guts. The alleyway was packed with pallets and dumpsters, but there was a little gap between pallets where a graffiti artist had enjoyed themselves.

FUCK THE KINGDOM it said.

Keith stopped beside Shiro to look at the paint. Shiro looked as bad as Keith felt: the skin around his right eye had blackened, while Sendak had clipped him with a bullet along the arm. His clothes were wrinkled and ripped, and blood coated his shoes. Keith watched Shiro’s chest rise and fall, as though he still hadn’t caught his breath.

Keith turned off his headset. He reached out for Shiro’s collar to do the same. Shiro’s eyes burned as he looked over Keith’s bruised skin. When the second microphone was off, Shiro grabbed Keith’s hand. His lips were soft against Keith’s palm.

“They might need us,” Keith murmured. Shiro stroked the flat of Keith’s hand, breathing in the blood and sweat. “If reinforcements come--”

“They won’t,” Shiro said. His free hand fell to Keith’s waist, and he guided Keith’s back to the old graffiti. “Sendak knows it’s a lost cause. And if they need us, they can shout.” Shiro’s weight pressed against Keith. Their fingers intertwined. Shiro’s cock felt solid and warm, even through the fabric of their clothes.

Keith cradled Shiro’s face in his hand and pressed kisses along the bruising flesh of Shiro’s eye. It forced him to his tiptoes until Shiro leaned down. Shiro’s mouth tasted of blood and smoke. Silken lips brushed against his, and Keith sighed into Shiro. Tension bled from his body.

His hand drifted down over Shiro’s body. His muscles’ planes were rigid and defined, almost carved from marble. The heat from Shiro’s cock reached Keith’s hand before the hard flesh did. The suit trousers stretched out, the seams tight; Keith ran a thumb over the clothed head. Shiro moaned, his breaths ragged.

“Come on,” Shiro whispered. “No teasing--we don’t have time for that.”

Keith snorted softly. Shiro was right, though. The guns’ barks and cracks were easing, and cleanup would be over soon. He pressed light, airy kisses along Shiro’s sharp jawline as his hand unbuttoned and unzipped Shiro’s trousers. Sweat and blood dampened the briefs’ cloth. Keith let his fingers tease at the band until Shiro pushed him closer into the wall. Shiro grinded his cock against Keith’s leg--thankfully, Keith thought wryly, not the injured one.

“Hold on.” Keith’s breathy voice surprised himself. A flush had built on his cheeks and spread throughout his body. His hand felt aflame as he dipped it below the waistband. Precum beaded at the tip of Shiro’s cock, and Keith swiped over it with a thumb. Shiro’s breaths hitched.

Shiro pressed his sweaty forehead against the graffiti. The space between them turned molten as Keith spread the precum along the shaft. His long, pale fingers caressed the soft skin in languid motions, never hurried.

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro breathed into Keith’s hair. “Keith, _please_.”

It wasn’t desperate enough. Keith hummed to himself and nuzzled Shiro’s neck. Shiro smelled of gunpowder, blood, and sweat, a delightful mix that beat any cologne. The cock in his hand had flushed a vibrant, deep red; it twitched, just as Shiro did when Keith’s fingers teased the foreskin. “I could blow you,” Keith said.

That didn’t help Shiro’s situation. One of his hands fisted into Keith’s hair. “We don’t have time for--”

“You don’t,” Keith said. The gunshots were a trickle now. “Maybe I do.” His own cock was rock hard, straining against his trousers’ front. If Shiro was less tortured, he might have noticed, might have even taken advantage of it. But the adrenaline and arousal was too much. It sucked away the clever mind that usually took residence in Shiro’s skull and left behind only bare, wanton need.

Shiro pulled at Keith’s hair. It stung; a few strands came loose. Keith laughed, sharp and high, driven by pain. It only made the tight agony in his cock better. “Give me a kiss,” Keith said sweetly, eyes averted, lips pouty. Shiro loved the act--the demure if slightly crazy freak. Lance had walked in on them doing it once. He’d called Keith a pervert for a week. He hadn’t had the balls to say anything to Shiro.

Shiro guided Keith’s head to his. Their lips pressed together; Shiro slipped tongue before Keith could. Keith almost rolled his eyes, but a grin threatened to escape. He crooked his fingers around Shiro’s dick. It was heavy and long in his hands, almost gratuitously big. It glistened in the sunlight peeking from the clouds above.

Shiro moaned into his mouth as Keith began to pump it. Sharp and quick, the motions filled the alleyway with wet sounds. Shiro bucked into his hand, his thrusts hard. Keith edged Shiro closer, toward his own crotch. The first thrust that glanced over the sleek woolen front earned an almost surprised grunt from Shiro. Keith’s own moan echoed in the alley.

They swallowed each other’s sounds greedily. Shiro reached down to bare Keith--Keith almost stopped him, eager for the sensation of the cloth, but how would he explain cum-stained trousers? His own cock was just as red as Shiro’s, though more slender. He was thankful for that when he hooked his fingers around it too.

Shiro was slick and warm against him. The smell of sex filled his nostrils, heady and dark; Keith arched against Shiro. His hand grasped at their cocks, but Shiro’s bucking almost knocked his grip free. Puffs of warm air brushed against his cheeks, barely noticeable with the heat inside him. It was when his second hand came to guide Shiro’s thrusts that it happened.

Shiro’s hips stuttered. Warmth splashed on to his hand. Shiro reached down and angled his dick away. It spared Keith’s clothes a mess. Keith took the opportunity to finish himself off with two brutal pumps. Cum splattered on to the ground. Keith let himself slump against the wall after.

“Keith,” Shiro said, voice rough as sandpaper. A single hand kept him upright. Keith heard a zipper go up and glanced over at Shiro. His golden skin was bronzed under a high-cheek flush. Keith wiped his dick off on his wet hand and zipped himself up too. “I--”

Keith stared Shiro in the face as he licked his hand clean. Shiro’s eyes widened, a hint of lust still in them, but there hadn’t been a gunshot in a minute. “We should see what the others are doing,” Keith said. “Before they start looking.”

Shiro straightened his tie. There was a single spot of something questionably white which Keith scraped off with a fingernail when Shiro came close. “Lance has probably noticed,” Shiro said. “If he asks, we were investigating some graffiti I saw.”

Keith raised a brow and looked at the wall they’d fucked against. “... Okay.” Lance wouldn’t buy it, but would Lance really want to know? He adjusted his own clothes and hid away the white marks on the ground before they left. Both of them still reeked of sex, he thought. A few open windows would hide it.

“Shiro?” Hunk asked. His voice sounded tinny over the line, almost echoing. “I’m not seeing anyone left in the buildings.”

“No one from the top either.” Lance stood from his perch and stretched like a cat. “Pidge, you see anything?”

Pidge didn’t reply. “Pidge,” Shiro said. “Did you see anything?”

“Nothing.” Pidge sounded winded. It was the result of inexperience, Keith thought. Every battle seemed huge.

 

They left the corpses on the ground. The cops would be alerted once the final bit of product was shipped away. They’d have a mountain of corpses to ferry away to the morgue. The papers would be aghast, as they always were, but they’d also take their bribes to keep their noses out of Kingdom business. More kids would scribble notes about how much they hated the Kingdom and Lions on random walls, but Allura and the Kingdom as a whole would continue on as usual.

Keith rolled down three windows before the stench of sex faded. All around him, vehicles pulled up at the main warehouse. Wounded were helped in; the dead were arranged in faint dignity along the concrete barricades. They’d lost ten in total: two from a grenade, five from a sniper  who’d managed to get to Lance’s height before Lance discovered them, and three from the general melee.

The Empire had lost more. That was what mattered.

Keith took a side route from the heart of Brighton. It forced them to a crawl, but it split the Kingdom’s traffic to something that could flow. Several turns shed anyone following them. The SUV remained silent as they travelled. Keith kept adjusting his leg. The stitches burned. Without having to move, the blood dried to an itch; the scabs, he thought, would thoroughly put him out of action.

When they broke out from the warehouse maze, they were greeted by traffic. Keith eased them into the lines of cars, as though they weren’t coming from a massacre. Lance and Hunk had startled to chat in the back--the topic being recent playoffs in baseball and the wagers they’d made. Shiro leaned back in his seat, his arms stretched out as he yawned.

“Back to Redmond?” Keith asked, voice low. Lance laughed behind him, oblivious to Shiro’s contemplative look.

Shiro looked away from Keith back to his phone. “Redmond. We can clean up before we go to Aisawa’s. I’ve booked us for a table d'hôte.”

“Hey!” Lance stuck himself through the gap between seats. “What about us?”

“Pepper’s Pizza should be open,” Keith said casually. The noise of disgust Lance made almost forced a smirk from Keith. “Allura will want to meet with us before, though--”

Force slammed him into the car door. Metal screamed under the assault of another car. Lance’s head cracked against Keith’s seat; Shiro shouted something, but Keith didn’t understand it. His seatbelt cut into his skin and his bones creaked under the strain. Keith tried to catch his breath, but the force kept pushing. The world flipped, and the windows gave in.

Metal crunched above his head. His brain felt scrambled as it swung about. Dribbles of gasoline spilled down around them. There were people screaming, clear and high, but no siren. Not yet--but maybe it’d come too late. A car door opened a distance away. Keith twisted his head to look, his vision blurry; Shiro hung loose in his seatbelt, while Hunk struggled with his behind Shiro. Lance looked dazed.

Shoes appeared at Shiro’s window. The large shadow hummed as it crouched down. More gasoline came, poured from containers all around them. The voice was familiar from the past, but Keith’s jostled brain refused to identify it. “God bless the Kingdom,” the voice crooned, “and long live the queen.”

A lighter clicked. Orange ignited around the car. Heat burned at his legs and face, the flames devouring the leaking gas. A car door closed again, and he heard its engine roar as the car bolted away.

Sirens wouldn’t come in time.


	2. Chapter 2

Death did not surprise or shock Keith. He’d dealt final blows many times, and people came for his throat almost as often. The only things he thought about death were whether it would be painless and if it would come sooner rather than later. He did not expect to live a long life. That was for wealthy people huddled in their suburbs and mansions with their doctors and loved ones.

It wasn’t for a mob enforcer. It wasn’t for someone who’d crawled from the world’s underbelly and staked out a parcel of land as big as their thumb. But to die in a car wreck’s fire, assassinated by someone he knew yet didn’t?

Even in his daze, his hands migrated down to grapple with his seatbelt. Metal strained behind him as Hunk struggled with the door. Lance muttered to himself, the words a frantic babble of nothing. Shiro moaned. If nothing was broken in his body, it’d be a miracle: they’d hit the car on Shiro’s side. Fire licked at the shattered window, searching for a stream of gasoline to devour and flood the inside. Above, trickles of gasoline dribbled from the body of the car, a gift from their assassins. If Keith didn’t move and save Shiro, Shiro would die.

He breathed in deep. _Focus_. His hands shook, but they managed to unbuckle the seatbelt. Gravity yanked him down into the mess of glass and torn metal that was the roof. He ignored the cuts and stabs to crawl over to Shiro. Heat warmed the metal to something burning. It eased through his suit’s wool to scorch at his skin.

“Shiro!” Keith said. The flames’ crackle almost drowned him out. Keith knew cars well enough to know it wouldn’t explode, but the fire would only get worse when it reached the fuel tank. He reached out to cradle Shiro’s head. A long cut sliced over his nose. A sheet of blood washed down his golden skin, staining it a sunset red.

Keith pushed himself up. Behind him, Hunk yelled. The door finally gave. Lance’s foot clipped Keith’s side as he struggled free. Still, Shiro did not move. Keith found Shiro’s seatbelt clinging to his body, its edges almost sharp against his chest; with deft movements, he undid it. Shiro fell from the seat, into Keith’s body. Keith wrapped his arms around Shiro and pulled him close. He didn’t follow Hunk or Lance, even as the fire grew.

He waited for gunshots. Three went off in quick succession. Someone cried out. “Lance!” Keith called out. “Hunk?”

“Alive,” Hunk wheezed. “Lance got a bullet to the leg.”

No proper hitman would leave their targets’ deaths to pure chance. With the remnants dead, Keith began to drag Shiro from the car. His own leg tried to thwart him: it denied him strength, and yowled in pain whenever it touched something, yet he ignored it. The flames were getting higher. They’d spilled in through Keith’s window and were sprouting like weeds over abandoned concrete.

Hunk used his coat to swat back flames. It let Keith haul at Shiro; his lungs and arms ached, but he didn’t have a choice. The flames were coming. One licked at Shiro’s shoes. Shiro didn’t stir--but Keith didn’t doubt the leather melted.

Lance eventually came to help. He’d wrapped his leg in his suit coat; blood soaked it. Between him and Keith, they finally pulled Shiro from the wreckage. “Pidge?” Hunk was saying. “Pidge, you there?”

Nobody came to help them. Everyone in New Meridian recognized a hit when they saw it. The gunfire would force several to call the cops, but the cops would come at their own pace. “We need a new car,” Keith said.

Lance wheezed as they pulled Shiro up the curb, away from the car. “Don’t look at me. I can barely walk.”

Keith ground his teeth together. “Hunk! Forget Pidge. This is a Kingdom-wide strike.” He knew it to his bones. Pidge was gone, a hit had been waiting for them just outside Brighton, and there’d been lingering assassins waiting for them to get out of the burning car. All he hoped was that Pidge had got away before they hit the apartment building. “Call in Rolo before we get a cleanup crew.”

He crouched down beside Shiro. He used a pocket kerchief to wipe at the blood. “Shiro,” he said. “Shiro! Look at me. Say something.” Shiro’s eyes were shaded, but Keith caught sight of their dazed, glassy surface. “ _Blink_.”

Nothing. He was unconscious, which meant severe head trauma. Keith busied himself by looking over Shiro’s body. The advanced prosthetic he used was totalled, and there were cuts all along his right side. Keith swore he’d heard Shiro moan, so he’d only been out after the collision.

“We need a car right now,” Hunk said over the phone. “Not later, Rolo! Now. Before someone starts shooting at us again. What--payment?! How about me saving you from the cops last time. Is that good enough?”

Shiro groaned. Keith took hold of his chin and tilted it up. Shiro’s eyelids fluttered open. “Where…?”

“You’re out of the car,” Keith said. “We’re trying to get out of here before another cleanup crew comes. First, though: where are you?”

“Out of the car.” Keith rolled his eyes. “New Meridian.”

“Good. Your name?”

“... Takashi Shirogane.” Keith couldn’t tell if he’d forgotten his name or was just not used to being anything other than ‘Shiro’. Either way, it’d have to be good enough. Keith hooked Shiro’s flesh arm over his shoulders. “Keith--?”

“We need to move. We’re out in the open right now, and that’s not good.” Keith glanced at Lance. He didn’t want to, but he didn’t have a choice. “Help with the other side. We’re going for the alleyway.”

Keith’s leg almost gave out halfway up. Lance wavered under Shiro’s weight. It forced Keith to take on more, until Lance was more guiding them than helping carry Shiro. “Hunk!” Lance called out. “This way.”

Hunk took Lance’s place. “Rolo’s coming. He wants payment.” Hunk frowned to himself and kicked glass bottles out of their way. “You have my support if you shatter his kneecaps for his mouth, Keith.”

Which was pretty much a request that Keith do it. Keith wasn’t a fan of Rolo, but they didn’t need more enemies at the moment. Garbage mucked up his patent leather shoes as he shuffled deeper into the alleyway. There were no convenient pallets or garbage cans to situate Shiro on, so Keith hitched him higher on his shoulder and brought him to the alley’s right hand side. A dumpster blocked the view of the street.

Lance slumped beside Shiro. Keith eyed his leg, but it didn’t look like any of the bone had broken, let alone shattered. “You’re sure he’s coming?” Lance’s voice sounded exhausted. “Christ, I don’t even have a pistol on me now.”

Keith pulled one from his back waist holster and spun it around to offer the gun to Lance. “Be smart with it.” The moment Lance took it, he turned back to Shiro. “Look up. I need to check your pupils.”

Rolo took his time coming. The old red junker appeared with groans and pops, its worn tires gliding over a stream of blood. “What the fuck did you guys do?” was the first question he asked when they hobbled out of the alley. “Is that car on _fire_?”

“Shut up and drive,” Keith said after getting Shiro in. Rolo’s eyes flashed with malice, but Keith didn’t care. Lance was armed behind him. If they had to, they’d kill Rolo and take the car.

Hunk took shotgun. Lance grumbled on the other side of Shiro, but Keith paid him no mind. Shiro had a severe concussion, and while professional medical attention would be best, it’d also bring them to the attention of the cops. Keith could do basic first aid while they regrouped, he figured.

Except things got worse. The first safe house had been cracked: fire engulfed the little bungalow, and neighbours surrounded the edge, watching as the firefighters scrambled to contain the blaze. The second had a sniper covering it. The third?

The third was meant to be Allura’s mansion. It was assumed that, by the third safe house, everything had gone wrong. And in this case, it had. Because the mansion had been levelled. Rumble smouldered, while trust-fund kids and their parents were shepherded, dazed, into their vehicles. Others came out as corpses.

“Fuck,” Keith breathed. Shiro leaned against him, exhausted but not allowed to doze.

Rolo was finished. “I think I’m done,” he said because he had to know the Kingdom was done too. “Get out before I drive you to the Empire. _Especially_ you, Hunk. Don’t ever call me again.”

Lance put a gun to Rolo’s head. Rolo’s jaw snapped shut. “Get out,” Lance said. Rolo didn’t argue, but he did complain. Keith didn’t doubt he’d run to the police the moment they were gone.

Keith took his place in the front seat. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but he’d make due. So where would he take them? ‘Anywhere but here’ was the answer. He sped away from the burning mansion.

“Try to get Pidge on the line,” Keith told Hunk. His mind worked away, trying to find a good destination. The blank he drew just made him grimmer. Where was left? He had contacts--names and addresses. He gave them to Hunk.

No one picked up. Had they known the attack was coming, or had the news reached them that fast? After the fifth name, Keith’s knuckles were white on the wheel. “We’re going to a motel,” he said. “Out in in the valley. If you want out, I’ll drop you each off.”

Hunk and Lance shared long looks in the car mirror. Keith focused on the road as he could, but his skin itched. Dried blood left behind a residue of red on pale skin. No one spoke. Silence stretched.

“I’m staying,” Hunk decided. “For now. If they come for us again like that, I’m going underground. I signed up for a lot, but not this. I’ll go back east if I have to.”

You didn’t run from the Empire that easy, Keith thought, but maybe the Empire would write off Hunk. It wasn’t like he’d be a threat in Boston. Keith shook his head. “Do what you need to. We need to find Pidge before anything. She’ll know what exactly happened.”

“Pass me the phone, Hunk.” Lance took it, grimacing. “Pidge gave me an emergency line. It was supposed to be if anyone went rogue, but I guess it’s for when everything blows up in our faces.”

Keith couldn’t tell if that was an improvement. He knew where the worry for someone going rogue came from. Lance dialled in silence and they all began to wait. When Lance spoke, his voice was sharp. “You alive?” A button beeped as speakerphone turned on.

“No thanks to the Empire.” Pidge sounded out of breath. “They firebombed the apartments. I only escaped because I was throwing out garbage. Everything’s toast--they took out our rooms, torched the cars, and I couldn’t even get a gun except that peashooter you gave me, Hunk.”

“Where are you?” Keith cut through.

Pidge paused. “I’m not completely sure. I don’t have a burner phone, and I know the Empire has roots in carriers. So I just sort of ran. I don’t want to abandon you guys, but I need to find my brother.”

Things were getting a little too heated. If she’d seen Allura’s torched mansion, he couldn’t really blaming her for writing off the Kingdom. She had a life besides this. Keith knew her brother worked in arms shipments too. If the Empire had thoroughly burned the Kingdom to the ground, the depots would be gone, their weapons taken for further bloodshed.

Keith wished he had a cigarette on him. They weren’t good for his body, but they were a hell of a lot better for his mind than the terror chewing its way through him. He moderated his breathing. If he was patient, an opportunity would present itself. Shiro had told him again and again that patience yielded focus, but it was hard to really have faith in when it looked like everything circled the toilet bowl.

“Go,” he said. He’d stripped any bitterness from his voice. “Things are only going to get uglier. But if you leave, you’ll have to talk to Allura when the dust settles.”

If she was even alive.

The motel he brought them all to hid behind a gas station, a 7-11, and a dollar store. The area had never been classy, but Keith swore he remembered fewer used needles on the ground. Squat and battered, the windows were at least intact and they had a room open. As a bonus, they knew better than to ask why Keith was bleeding on their floor.

The room itself was a grey box with dented pine furniture. The double bed had dingy sheets; when Keith lay Shiro out on them, springs squealed. Keith winced as blood seeped into the floors and sheets from his leg, but he cared more about Shiro. “Eyes open,” he told Shiro.

Shiro blearily looked at him. “It feels swollen.” He pressed at his skull with light touches. “I’ve got a big egg there. Can you see it?”

“No,” Keith said. He paused, squinted, and leaned forward a bit. “... Okay, a little bit. That’s--we’ll get some Restorex and things will be better.” Where the fuck was he going to get Restorex? All Althean medicines were expensive, even if they worked miracles. He had the cash for a cheap motel on him, but the motel they were in charged by the hour.

Shiro’s warm fingers touched his chin. “We have a stash on Greenfield,” Shiro said, as though he’d read Keith’s mind. It wouldn’t have been hard: the problem was obvious.

Unlike the solution. “I thought we moved that to Codrington.”

“The Greenbloods moved in there. I thought they might find it.” A finger brushed over his mouth. “I’m really tired. Can I sleep?”

Keith pressed a kiss against the finger before he pulled away. “You can’t. We don’t know what your brain is doing. If you go to sleep, you might die.” Keep it simple, he knew. Shiro could hold a conversation and knew where and who he was, but his pupils were still dilated and he couldn’t walk right. His brain needed to recover more first. Paradoxically, sleep would have been the easiest way for his brain to do that, if not for the severe danger it posed.

“If I leave him with you,” Keith said, eyes on Lance and Hunk, “I won’t regret it.”

It wasn’t a question, but Lance decided to treat it as one. “We’re not going to do anything, man. Trust us.”

There was a fifty-fifty chance they’d run. If he could, he’d chain them to the bed. He didn’t want to leave Shiro dazed and confused without support. But if he didn’t get the medication and the stash, they didn’t stand much of a chance. If there was enough cash, he could even dump Rolo’s car before the cops found him. There were always people up for selling their cars off the books.

The five thousand dollars were in crisp bills. They’d been packed tight into a suitcase, alongside a pair of guns--a Beretta and a Glock, one for Shiro, one for Keith. The stash had waited for a year in a dusty storage box rental, and now it’d finally become worth the dummy account payments.

He dumped Rolo’s car’s identity in an outskirt parking lot. There were no cameras and no toll booth operators to watch him. He stripped the vehicle of its plates before he took another car’s plates and screwed them on to Rolo’s junker. After, he gifted Rolo’s plates on to the car whose identity he’d stolen. It’d confuse things, and it’d hopefully cover his tracks for the next while when he got rid of Rolo’s car.

  
He ended up buying a car along the highway. A pot-bellied man had put up his pickup truck for sale. It was battered and rusted and coughed up plumes of smoke from its exhaust, but it was a grand and a half--a grand and a half that he waived in return for Rolo’s car. “No paperwork, boy?” the man had asked.

Keith shrugged, his shoulders like liquid. “New Meridian doesn’t care. You’re using that for scrap, aren’t you? And I’m looking to leave town. I’ll give you my email and we can sort it out later.”

The man snorted. “I’m no fan of the government. Take it, leave this beauty to me.”

It was a junker, but one’s man trash, Keith supposed. He got the pickup--it had seats for four, a flatbed and a dated certificate to use the skyways of New Meridian. The cash went into the backseat. He drove away, humming to himself. The man would be able to tell the cops the seller had been a wiry Asian man, and that was it. He’d given his name as Vincent, lied about his age and profession, and said he was a tourist from California.

Another switch of the license plates, preferably out of state, or a car trade and a few identifying marks changed, and he’d be good. It was already going to be impossible for the cops to find Rolo’s car. He dropped by an Althean dispensary and grabbed a thousand dollar kit. They didn’t even ask for ID. Instead, they looked frazzled and worried.

Had the Empire taken out Althea’s HQ too? That’d have been brazen. It was bad enough they’d struck out at Allura’s mansion. It invited attention from the authorities into the dealings of the Empire and the Kingdom.

Keith looked at the TVs in windows. Anchors were talking about New Meridian going up in flames, but Allura’s picture wasn’t there. If she was alive, they still had a chance.

Neither Hunk nor Lance had left Shiro. Lance smoked outside, a gun in his holster; Hunk kept shaking Shiro awake. The egg Shiro had mentioned had doubled in size in the hour and some Keith had been gone. Shiro’s eyes still brightened when he saw Keith.

It didn’t stop the slur to his words. “The money was there?”

“Safe and sound,” Keith said. He lay out the Althean medical kit. “Open your mouth. I bought you orange pop.”

“No mac and cheese?”

Keith found the pills. “No. It’d have been cold by the time I got back, and we don’t have a microwave.” Shiro muttered that it didn’t _matter_ , Keith, he was injured and didn’t he deserve something nice? The something nice, in Keith’s view, was going to be the pills. “Try not to puke this up.”

Keith knew from experience that Restorex tasted like charcoal when the pills’ coating wore off. He shoved the bottle of orange pop at Shiro, pills in the other hand. It took some guidance for Shiro not to drop the full bottle. When the pills went down, Keith took the bottle back and popped Xcellerant himself. It tasted like metal.

“You’re going to be sick,” Shiro told him.

Keith shrugged. “No worse than you.”

Hunk’s nose wrinkled. “I guess I better empty the waste bin,” he muttered, standing. “You have anything for Lance?”

“Passed him pills on the way in. It won’t fix his leg, but it’ll speed things up.” Keith yawned. It was only dusk, yet it felt like it’d been a week. “You didn’t get banged up too bad?”

“Bruises, mostly.” Hunk emptied the waste bin and nudged it over to the bed. “... What are we going to do?” Keith raised an eyebrow. “About--this. All of it. I know you guys are healing, but the Kingdom’s _gone_. I’ve tried to phone Pidge back, but she’s not answering. Lance wants to run for Canada and take a flight back to Miami.”

Keith frowned, but not at Hunk. “I’m not going to tell you this is good.”

“I kind of figured--”

“You don’t need to stay,” Shiro interrupted. They both turned to look at him. “If the Kingdom’s gone, the contract is done. You can empty your accounts and get out of the Empire’s way. I don’t know if they’ll come after you. I can’t make any promises about that. But if you run fast and run far, the Empire’s not going to chase.”

Hunk shifted from foot to foot, uneasy. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” Shiro propped himself up. Exhaustion darkened the natural circles beneath his eyes. “We don’t have a base. No HQ. Allura is missing, if not captured or dead. We can’t go to Althea because we don’t mean a thing to them. We’re hiding in a motel room. We’ve got three guns between the four of us, and there are hit squads hunting us.”

Silence. Then Shiro continued. “I’m not leaving. I owe it to the Kingdom to stay. But you and Lance have only been around for a few years, and you’ve got family. Go.”

Hunk’s lips thinned. “... I don’t want to do this. I need to talk to Lance.” He turned and hurried from the room. Keith didn’t go chasing: his stomach already hated him, and it’d only make Hunk’s dilemma worse.

Shiro let himself flop against the pillows. Keith lay down beside him. Their bodies pressed close--not for comfort, but because the bed was so small. Keith breathed in blood and sweat, and he knew Shiro had to deal with Keith’s own rankness.

“Am I allowed to sleep?” Shiro asked.

Restorex would reduce swelling, speed up healing, and ease nausea. It was similar to Xcellerant, but built especially for the brain. “Go sleep. I’ll make sure nothing happens.”

Shiro didn’t snore. Keith found that unfortunate for the first time in his life. His own eyelids drooped and fluttered as he desperately tried to stay awake. Everything in his body screamed for sleep, but if Hunk and Lance left, there’d be no one to guard him and Shiro. He adjusted his body until he found a broken spring that dug into his back.

He wasn’t surprised when cars came. He waited for an attack, but no one broke down the door; he knew, then, what it meant. Lance and Hunk were gone. Maybe not to flee, maybe to go into hiding, but they would not be fighting a war that already looked lost.

When Keith checked, he found the pickup still there. Hunk and Lance had left a single note on the doorstep. It wasn’t much of an apology, but it didn’t need to be. Keith went back in and pulled up a chair, dragging the trash bin between his legs.

The Xcellerant ravaged his body. Althean medicines were _effective_ , not kind. His skin itched and burned, while dizziness sent his mind spinning. He heard things and people who were not there. A person moaned; he felt his own lips dry shut as Shiro slept on. The bed beneath him shuddered and shook, as though something jostled it. But he knew it wasn’t truly moving. It was his brain overheating, conjuring visions of things that never existed.

When Shiro woke, the worst of his own medicine had passed. He gently guided Keith to the bed. While Keith breathed, soft and light, Shiro wiped at Keith’s wound with a cloth soaked in hot water. When Keith fell asleep, the heat finally faded.

He woke to a full moon in the sky. A pair of new suits were on the bed, atop his blanket-covered legs. Shiro was crammed inside the cramped bathroom that barely had room for a toilet, sink, and shower stall. He winced and muttered as he tried to shave his face with a cheap razor.

“How long?” Keith asked in a crackling voice.

“Four hours. I took the pickup to buy more things.” Shiro nodded at a series of bags at the foot of the bed. “We have work to do.”

Keith investigated his leg. The fresh skin was thin and delicate, but it covered the sutures. Keith stretched and flexed the muscles. Some of the skin threatened to rip and the muscles were stiff, but it was worlds better than what had been.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re going to an Empire party,” Shiro said.

Keith pursed his lips. “That seems like a bad idea.”

“It is,” Shiro replied, “but I haven’t found a trace of Allura, and I don’t know what the Empire’s planning. Do you?”

“No.” Keith stood from the bed. “... They might recognize us, Shiro.”

“Not if we go to an unimportant party.” Shiro ruffled his hair. The cut across his face had healed to a scar, Keith noticed. It fit with the rest of the scars on his body from years of work. “We’ll go to a bar with their soldiers and hear what we can hear.”

It was better than waiting around. “We going downtown, or to the Ironsides Bar?” Shiro turned, raising a brow. _You choose_ , it seemed to say. “Ironsides, then. We might still have friends around there.” It was by the docks, after all. Some of the dock workers had to still remember them.

Would they turn on Keith and Shiro in the new climate, though? There’d be a reward for pointing them out, even if it was a passing favour. But the Empire’s grip was new, and maybe the docks thought it temporary. The Kingdom had always been kind to the docks, and the Lions were instruments of that. If they got at least one ally from Ironsides and a bit of information, it’d be a win.

Shiro had a second razor for Keith, plus an extra toothbrush. With them strapped for cash, none of his or Shiro’s fancier products were around. Not that Keith thought himself fancy: two in one shampoo-conditioner was good enough for him. But Shiro liked colognes and moisturizers, and Keith liked to smell them. Shiro always carried a spicy musk around his neck, a mix of product and sweat that Keith found heady.

Keith took a quick shower. Rivulets of now-liquid blood washed down the drain around his feet. Keith breathed in the warmth as he examined his leg. Shiro watched him from the bed, slowly dressing and tying his tie. The floss-thread was soft and pliable still, even if some of the new skin had tried to grow into it. He gave it a light tug. The skin pulled a bit, but nothing hideous happened. Another day, and he’d be able to snip the knot and unthread it from his leg.

He looked forward to that. But for now, something cast a pall over his thoughts. He saw the same grimness in Shiro’s countenance. Everyone had left. Pidge had gone missing; Lance and Hunk had taken off for the north, likely to pick up a flight to New York from Seattle or even Vancouver. Portland would be skipped--too close, and slightly infested by the Empire.

What did it mean to be alone? They’d lost Pidge’s technological expertise. Lance’s sniping was out of reach. Hunk’s explosives experience would have been useful. Meanwhile, Allura had gone missing, and the docks belonged to the Empire, albeit in a confused, scrambled form. The two remaining Lions weren’t in fighting form either.

When Keith left the shower to dress, he tried to get a read on Shiro. The bump on his head had faded, but the exhaustion lingered. Shiro looked horribly resigned to what had happened. Nothing good lasted forever, but it hurt to see. Years of work had gone up in flames.

“We’ll go to Aisawa’s,” Keith said, “when this is all done.” Shiro startled, looking up at him. “The Empire got the jump. But surprise never lasts long. You’ve told me that before.”

Shiro nodded slowly. “You either kill them after knocking them to the ground, or they get back up.”

“Exactly.” Keith took the Glock from the nightstand and held it out. “Let’s get back up.”

The city knew something was wrong. The streets were emptier than usual, and those who walked the lanes eyed everyone that passed. The Empire had been too public--even if a resident didn’t know someone involved in the underworld business of the city, they’d seen pictures of Allura’s mansion, news of the slaughter in Brighton, and the further massacres throughout the dock district.

Ironsides was tucked between a fishmarket and the customs representative office for the dock. It was further south than Redmond, in Victoria’s Row, just beside the foundry district. The rank stench of fish permeated the neighbourhood. Most people in the area worked for a cannery, a tour boat, or directly in fishing. It was a hellscape for anyone not used to the overpowering smells.

Ironsides, though, provided shelter from it all. Built from stone, its windows were usually sealed and its doors always open. The entrance was from a staircase down into the cellar-like atmosphere. Hard cherry woods, antique barrels, and walls of bottled liquors filled the place. They served a mean dish of fish and chips, though few went to Ironsides for it alone.

The doors were solid, heavy wood. In front of them were a pair of bouncers--a woman and a man dressed in casual clothes--and they eyed him and Shiro as they walked down the steps. There wasn’t a line this time: unusual in most circumstances, but not when Empire goons were in the building.

“You won’t cause trouble?” the woman asked, voice sharp.

Shiro smiled his leader-smile. “We’re just stopping by for some food.” She looked pointedly at his waist. His Glock wasn’t visible, but everyone knew Shiro armed himself whenever he went out. Shiro shrugged. “Just in case. But you have my word we won’t start anything.”

“But you’ll certainly finish it,” she muttered. Still, she moved aside. Shiro’s word had weight. “If you need to fight, the dock down there is where to do it. Don’t destroy any of the bottles--”

Shiro smiled his smooth smile, and the words were knocked from her lips. Keith rolled his eyes. Shiro tended to have a concussion grenade effect on those he met. When they got into Ironsides, the bar went quiet. It was far less friendly than the bouncer’s reaction. Keith scanned the one-room bar.

He didn’t see any immediate recognition. What seemed to have unsettled people was the interruption on their clandestine and mob-associated conversations. He and Shiro were unknowns. Shiro’s build pushed away anyone who’d immediately make a scene. They went to the bar itself--several seats were open off to the left side. Shiro took the seat furthest, below a rack of antlers. Keith sat beside a weedy weasel of a man who leaned in to his friends, a furtive look affixed to his face.

Keith ordered a classic Manhattan; Shiro took a whiskey straight. The bartender recognized them, but she had the wisdom to not say a word. He and Shiro didn’t speak--just ate peanuts and sipped their drinks. The acclimation of those around them was slow, but the celebrations pushed it along. Everyone knew the Kingdom was dead, after all, and Shiro and Keith looked like well-dressed investors visiting the canneries.

“They’re just _gone_ , man,” the weasel’s friend was saying. “A little push, and the dominoes just fell. Lions? Mariposas? Even Chinatown! Little bit of fire, and poof. The guys in Redmond have been waiting for the Lions to turn up, but not a word.”

Weasel shook his head. “I still can’t believe Althea’s involved in any of this. What if the Kingdom’s cosying up to them because we fucked up? They could be planning on how to get back at us for this.”

“You heard what the guys up top said.” Weasel’s friend dipped fries into an unseen sauce. He popped the fry in, his teeth audibly crunching. “They know Althea’s behind the Kingdom. It’s why we went after their boss. The business side is still running, sure, but where the Lions gonna talk to the CEO, hm? Where they gonna meet that isn’t full of us now? They were paper tigers, and a little wind dealt with them.”

Keith hid his frown in his Manhattan. All around them, people were talking about the same thing. How they’d set the fire, who they’d been targeting, even who’d ordered what--all oblivious to the risk among them, all of them too busy laughing at the vanquished Kingdom to realize that a bent branch snapped back.

“It’s just all revenge, y’know?” Weasel said. “Muscled us outta the docks like we were nothing. I guess what goes around comes around. Do you think they’ll try to fight back?”

“We move fast.” Weasel’s friend worked with a plastic knife and fork to pick apart their fried fish. “I know the Generals are hunting for anyone still in town. You know them--they’ll whack ‘em like weeds. In a week, the Kingdom’ll be a memory.”

The goons knew little else. It was a celebration at the Ironsides--not a planning session, or anything productive. Foot soldiers laughed like hyenas at a corpse. The Kingdom was dead to them, and in its place, the Empire would consolidate power. But what would it do with the power? Why had the Empire struck now?

And why had they involved Allura in it? Most knew better than to drag in legitimate figures. But the Empire had skipped that dictum. He and Shiro waited for a single mention of another place where the Empire celebrated. It proved to be far more dangerous than any lion’s den.

The Empire’s ruling officers celebrated at the bell clock tower--better known as the Hollyhock. The tower was built into an old train station, one that’d been decommissioned decades ago. Now, it belonged to whoever was willing to rent it from the city. It meant that the Empire had been planning their strike for a long while.

Why hadn’t any of their plants noticed? They had people from foot soldiers to smugglers to assassins, and Keith hadn’t heard a word from them. It meant that either their spies had been kept out of the loop or they were dead. Keith tried to remember the last time he’d seen a report. The sinking feeling in his chest gave him the answer.

“We can’t use the pickup.” They waited beside the vehicle. Keith eyed the shredding old tires. “If this is supposed to be fancy, we’re going to have to sneak in, and I know they won’t let us get close with this.”

Shiro contemplated the dented fender. “We can call a limo.”

“On short notice?”

Shiro shrugged. “Or we walk through the back. If we get spotted on the streets, we might be in trouble.”

They went with a rideshare. It had a premium option for the luxury cars. The only problem was that they had to pay a stranger cash for them to order the ride, and then pay on top of that for the ride itself. It was the kind of ingenuity, Keith thought, that firing practice and sparring didn’t prepare you for. Many a potential mobster had their careers kneecapped because they couldn’t talk anyone into anything.

Before the ride came, Keith dumped the pickup in a shuttered cannery’s parking lot. He almost pulled off the license plates and threw them off the docks, but it wasn’t time for that yet. They might need to come back. For now, though, they’d need a burner phone.

The driver had no idea who either of them were, nor did he seem to care. He was more concerned with the car’s playlist and making sure they knew he provided drinks and gum. Keith took a bottle of water, just to help wash down the mediocre Manhattan, and had him pull over in front of a cell phone kiosk. Shiro went out to sweet-talk the sales woman while Keith warmed the seats.

“You both going to the party at Hollyhock?” the driver asked, the first display of curiosity in the thirty minute drive.

Keith swallowed down water. His leg itched. “We are.” There was no point in hiding it. “Does everyone know a party’s happening there?”

“Pretty much,” the driver said. “There are some big name actors and shit there.” His nose scrunched up. “Not that I care. My girlfriend just really wanted a ticket in. You think you can spring one?”

Keith wouldn’t have given him a ticket even if he’d had the power. “No can do. Sorry.”

The driver slumped a bit in his seat. “I figured. I don’t even have a suit for it anyway, and I’m pretty sure my girl doesn’t have a dress that’d be good for something swanky.” He brightened suddenly. “Take a picture of place for me? My Viro’s at JesseVane--”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Keith cut in. There wouldn’t be any pictures. Those were traceable, and the phones were meant as burners. They’d have four, one for each of them in an emergency, and then two more for business. Not… for helping a stranger get pictures of an exclusive event. For his girlfriend’s approval at that.

Jesse’s expression fell again. He turned in his seat and focused on staring at the car ahead of them. “This is my dad’s car, you know.”

Oh, Christ. “You take good care of it,” he said while staring at a mystery stain on the driver seat’s back. When Shiro returned, it was pure relief. Jesse returned to driving while they worked out how to use the phones.

They were Althean made, so the more obvious trackers weren’t in place. GalTech, and thus the Empire, ruled the tele-communications in the area, so they were stuck not using them unless it was an emergency. Their old phones were too connected to their identities to use, but the pay-as-you-go types they’d bought  possessed next to no identifying features. Especially since Shiro had used false IDs from the stash to buy them.

The rules for the phones were simple. Internet was allowed so long as they logged into none of their own accounts. Apps that didn’t use credit cards or account information were fine, but care should be taken. Calls, meanwhile, were likely being recorded and sifted through for information. No mentions of the Kingdom, the Lions, or anything else. Keith doubted, at least, that the Empire had technology to identify through vocal pitch, so if they needed to call someone about a taxi ride or order food, they’d be fine.

The Hollyhock was in the downtown--the part that the wealthy guarded fiercely from the slums or industrial encroachment. It was along Lancaster Avenue where all the luxury shopping was, as well as office buildings, City Hall, and the courts. New Meridian’s posher areas were further out, but Lancaster was the gem of the city.

“So I just drive you down Lancaster?” Jesse asked.

Shiro shook his head. “Along Washington. I think we both want to escape the paparazzi.”

“Sure, sure,” Jesse said. There was a gleam to his eyes now. “You actors or something?”

Shiro and Keith shared a long look. Keith spoke, if only because Jesse knew him better. “We’re venture capitalists.”

That, once again, disappointed Jesse. Venture capitalists were nothing he hadn’t seen before--not if the luxury SUV was his father’s. He took them along Washington. The street was still glitzy, but it wasn’t the luxury of Lancaster. Half the street was unburdened by security; the half around the Hollyhock had barriers and cops. Jesse stopped them in front of a Hermes shop. Shiro tipped well, if only to keep Jesse from gossiping about what he’d seen.

They couldn’t go straight to the Hollyhock. The police were at the back, and security was at the front. There were no protesters--largely, Keith thought, because the event had been kept quiet and attracted no public officials mired in controversy. The Empire had chosen its guests well. They were backroom functionaries, those who processed decisions on a dozen committees but whose names never made it into the paper.

The lack of protesters made things harder for sneaking in. There was no opportunity to direct the crowd for distractions. The only outsiders to the party were local news crews and superfans, and they tended to be impossible to manipulate. The reporters were too focused on getting a scoop on visitors. Superfans just wanted to catch a glimpse of their obsession strolling in for canapés. They knew where their stars were, and they also knew none of them had left yet. And at three-thirty in the morning, only the most hardcore of the hardcore fans were left.

How to get in, then? They were in an alley, a dozen doors down from the Hollyhock. The roof was an option, but if they were spotted, it’d be quick work for the police to catch them. Underground tunnels were possible, but the Hollyhock was unlikely to connect to the Hermes boutique or anywhere else.

It was better, in the end, to at least try the roof than dick around in the alleys, waiting for someone to notice them. A fire escape was a door down, beside a tall luxury furniture store. It took a boost from Shiro to get up, and he offered a hand up in return.

The Hollyhock’s bottom part was a rectangle that still loomed over the rest of the downtown. Glass bulged out like a canopy to act as the ceiling, reflecting hundreds of golden lights. Bars of dark metal acted as ribs, giving the roof form. In the centre of the station, a pillar stretched from the marble floors, above the ceiling and several hundred feet up, ending in a clock tower. The clock face was cream, with aged metal numbers and hands. At the very top was a belfry that kept count of the time, and whose sound echoed throughout the city. Most days, the belfry was off. Only for July Fourth and New Year did it clang.

The Hollyhock’s alleys were small. Garbage went out the back, while the alleys were meant for people to go through in doubles. It was jumpable, Keith thought--more so than the past few roofs they’d leapt between. The level they were on put them at the second floor--a partial floor that circled the building but left the main floor open to view the starry lights and sky above.

They crouched along, searching for open windows. Socialites crowded together in spots, glasses of champagne in hand. From the glimpses Keith caught, most attendees enjoyed the soirée at the bottom floor. Keith nudged Shiro and pointed a finger at an open window. Nobody was gathered around it. The closest group was on the opposite side of the hall.

“We only get one shot at that,” Shiro whispered. “If anyone sees, we’re going to get carted out and shot.”

What could be a distraction, then, to make sure nothing happened? He had a phone, a gun, and some money. There needed to be a stir at the front of the building to attract all the socialites to gawk at. “You have anything special?” Keith asked.

Shiro looked chagrined. “Gun, phone, money, and some Althean medications.”

They weren’t spoiled for choice, then. “You count me down,” Keith said. “I’ll signal when you should jump too.” He lifted his hand to tug at tie. “That, and you go. That work?”

“Not really,” Shiro replied, “but we don’t have a choice.” He motioned for Keith to set up, not that there was much to do. Keith crouched down, tensing his legs. He had room for four strides before he jumped. The glass, he thought, had to be strong--if only because it had to withstand hail, wild temperature change, and birds flying into it.

“Go.”

Keith sprinted. One, two, three, four steps, and he threw himself over the gap. He kept his limbs still as he sailed through the air. When the window--a flap of the ceiling opened wide--came within reach, he latched on to it. Years of the gym and physical labour made lifting himself up through the window easy. He stumbled as he landed on his feet before he straightened, smoothing his suit. Shiro’s shadow was invisible from the brightly lit building.

He didn’t give himself time to look over the Hollyhock. His attention was focused on the guests. None gaped at him--hell, none noticed him, more concerned with drinks, food, and company. The open window was in the centre of the room, but most people were off in corners or on the first floor. He scanned the area, searching for possible watchers.

Below, tables weighed down with food encircled a white marble dance floor. Flutes of champagne were the latest accessory, while a tower of the liquid sat centre-stage. Crystal-gold poured from an unending bottle; when guests drank their glasses, they merely needed to dip their glass in to the fountain.

Bouquets of flowers covered the wrought-iron railings while ribbons crossed from bannister to bannister. The pearly walls held paintings worth hundreds of thousands, and each had its own admiring group. Everyone wore suits and dresses--there were no rock or punk musicians to be seen, nor edgy alternative actors. This was for the crème de la crème. The Empire prefered elegance to shock. The music was even gentle and stately jazz, played by a band below.

The second floor was sparse. Keith looked from group to group. None of them cared too much for others. A handful let their gazes wander, but it was lacklustre. They didn’t care what they saw. Keith waited a few seconds before he adjusted his tie.

The thump at the glass almost startled him. Keith turned his head to see Shiro plastered against the window. The pane creaked, the pitch high as the glass began to give. Keith gave up pretense. He lunged over and grabbed Shiro by the lapels. A crack spread through the pane as he hauled. When Shiro tumbled in, he managed to turn it into a roll that made no sound. Behind them, the glass had a long crack that went from the top to the middle.

“Anyone looking?” Shiro asked as he straightened his suit.

Keith casually looked around, as though searching for a waiter. “Not a single one. We going down?”

“Into the belly of the beast.” Shiro neatened his tie. “We’ll stay in a corner and listen for any gossip. You see any officers, we bail out the back. I don’t want this to get us attention--or cornered.”

The Lions weren’t public. It was a security thing: the Lions were enforcers, and enforcers’ faces on television meant they were no longer useful. If a public hit needed to happen, there were masks. Otherwise, they kept their heads down, appeared as Lions rarely, and mostly organized the background. None of the socialites knew them. Even most the Empire’s officers had no idea what they looked like.

That fact let them swagger down the stairs without a soul saying anything. Shiro picked up a glass of champagne from a waiter, as though his whiskey hadn’t been enough. Keith supposed, though, that when you were two hundred pounds of pure muscle, alcohol didn’t hit you too hard. Shiro offered him a glass too. Keith only took it to blend in with the crowd.

The bottom floor’s conversation had three topics: a significant number of people were fascinated by the Hollyhock and its portraiture, others were admiring the Empire’s face corporation, GalTech, and then there were the more aware: those who spoke about the elephant in the room. People were dead. Buildings were razed. GalTech celebrated the attacks on Althea, and it was no stretch to think they’d had a hand in them. All the while, Empire soldiers smirked behind their glasses and shared long, lazy smiles.

A few people shot curious looks at them, but the curiosity never lasted long. Most fell to flushes at Shiro or turned back to their conversations. It made the trip around the floor fast. Halfway through, someone cleared their throat. Panic stabbed at his heart, but then the microphone’s feedback crackled. People winced at the intrusion on their peace. Keith turned, eyes for the stage; the band had stopped playing, emptying the room of its ambience.

On the stage was the Emperor, surrounded by foot soldiers and officers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be the 2nd!


	3. Chapter 3

The Emperor was an older man--tall, bulky, with weathered skin and a pair of sharp, clinical eyes. Most everyone knew his name--Zachariah Daniels--and he came from a southern family of good breeding but poor means. From cotton fields and old forests, he’d crawled his way to the West Coast to make something of himself. He still carried the mantle of Southern charm and a old Southern way of doing things: of the place each person had, of how to give respect, even how things were spoken  _ of _ . 

Allura hated him. “He’ll cut you down with a single look and a scolding for not doing things how he wants them done. It’s like he slithered out of the Antebellum with a little less racism.”

The Emperor was flanked by two people: first, his bodyguard, and second, his wife, Honora. A wizened woman with gold eyes and sharp features, Honora Daniels worked in GalTech Pharmaceuticals--the counterpart to Althea, forever opposing and innovating on Althea IPs. If Allura got more than two glasses of wine in her, she’d fume for hours about it.

Zachariah cleared his throat. His speech was calm and deliberate, while his gaze seemed to focus on everyone at once. “The time,” he declared, “is one for expansion. In a world of possibility, doors have opened for us to places we could never have dreamed.”

Keith leaned into Shiro, about to speak, but the Emperor was far from done. “New Meridian is a gateway to the Pacific, the landing step to America, and a port that millions of souls come to each year.” Keith stiffened.  _ The docks _ . “Miles away from where we are now, food, machines, and pharmaceuticals arrive every minute. Trillions of dollars in merchandise arrives here--and leaves in a fleet of GalTech trucks.”

So that was the angle. To the socialites, Zachariah spoke about investing in shipping and exports. But to anyone in the know, Zachariah was talking about drug shipments, human trafficking, and weapons dealing. With the docks in Imperial hands, the world became the Empire’s oyster. They could expand along the West Coast, maybe even slip into cities across the Pacific.

“We celebrate not only the beginning of investments, but the continuation of our legacy. Let us be fearless in expansion--let us reach out along this seaboard and across the ocean. There are allies to be found and mergers to be made.” Zachariah’s smile never showed his teeth. The sharpness of his eyes conveyed the threat. “With strength and faith, we hold. But with courage and ferocity, we grow.”

_ Victory or death. _ It came with every Empire tag. Zachariah’s polished words hid a culture of violence. Keith’s grip on the champagne glass’ stem turned his fingers white. The Empire wanted to assert its dominance over New Meridian, absorb the docks into its holdings, and expand. Althea had been dabbling in such things: they had contracts and agreements with triads and mafias along the Northwest.

But the scale Zachariah implied--that was  _ dangerous _ . Not just to the remnants of Althea, but to everything. To other groups of organized crime, to anyone who opposed the Empire, to bystanders. The docks, Keith thought, belonged to him and Shiro first, and the Kingdom last, but ownership wasn’t up for bids. If they wanted the docks back, they’d have to burn the Empire to the ground and pull the docks’ bones from the giant’s corpse.

The applause was strongest among officers and soldiers. Keith found himself glad he and Shiro hid in the back. They were off to the side, near to a buffet table of roasted meats and vegetables. Keith’s stomach had twisted to knots, though, and he couldn’t think of anything less appealing than food. 

“We need to leave,” Keith whispered to Shiro. The din of applause almost stormed his voice out completely. “This--this isn’t a celebration. It’s a rally for a bloodbath.”

“Finally noticed?” someone asked. Shiro’s hand jerked toward the gun tucked away in his suit jacket. “No, no, let’s not do that.” The man stepped forward. His white-blonde hair declared him a relative of Zachariah. His face had the angles and colour of Honora, while his speckled gold eyes were bright. He held a glass in his hand.

“Lothar,” Shiro guessed. “Have you told them about us?”

Lothar smiled as he took an elegant sip of the champagne. “Not a soul knows you’re here. In fact, if asked, I have no idea you were with us either.” He began to walk away. When neither Shiro nor Keith followed, he looked back. “Don’t you have questions?”

Keith shared a look with Shiro. Everyone knew about Lothar. The half-estranged son of Honora and Zachariah, he spent his days in Los Angeles, working in biochemistry. He hadn’t wanted to follow his father’s footsteps: it involved getting his hands dirty, when it was far more Lothar’s preference to design medicine and force the body to its limits. He worked for a GalTech lab. That was as far as he was interested in going.

Why was he at the celebration? Zachariah approved of Lothar’s research, but Lothar had made it clear again and again that he didn’t care for massacres and feeding addictions. Not that, Keith reflected, it’d stopped him from suckling at the Empire’s teat. Zachariah funded his studies and experiments and let him run an entire branch of the company.

Still. If someone knew the details of what Zachariah wanted, it would be Lothar. Keith moved to follow; Shiro mirrored him. From the edge of the dance floor, they went deeper into the Hollyhock, around tables and drunken dancers, away from Zachariah’s thundering voice. They didn’t go into a separate room, but took up a post at the room’s back where the applause and speech were distant booms of thunder.

Keith broke the silence between them. “You’re turning on him, or are you playing games?”

A smile flashed quicksilver over Lothar’s face. “Why not both? But no, I’m not here to usher you to my father’s deathbed. I have my own reasons for this. You two are quite brave for coming here, you realize? Quite stupid as well, but there’s such a thin line between the two.”

“If we weren’t here,” Shiro said, “you’d be very bored.”

Lothar laughed. “True, true. Are you volunteering to be entertainment?”

“I’m volunteering,” Keith cut in, “to listen to what you have to say.”

“So short!” Lothar muttered. “The stories  _ are _ true about your temper, then. Fine--you want to hear what I have to say. Understand that if you attempt to sell me out to my father, you’ll find yourselves dead after the venture.”

Shiro shrugged. “We’re already dead men walking. Why speed it up?”

Lothar nodded, sipping again from his glass. His cheek twitched under the bubbly assault, and Keith suspected he hated the beverage. Still, there was no point in calling him out on it. Keith stuffed his free hand in his pockets and leaned against the wall. When Keith spoke, it was measured.

“He’s planning to take the docks and expand the Empire along the coast and overseas. I’m thinking--considering your role in the corporation--your father wants to get involved in the manufacturing of drugs. And you’re not happy with that.”

Lothar’s eyes snapped over to him. “... You’re more clever than gossip gives you credit for. Yes, my father wishes for my mother and me to work on innovative recreational drugs. Addictive, with few physical side effects, and a preference for something transportable. A pleasant--but temporary--high is particularly important.”

It was a fact that addictive drugs were the most lucrative. They were also the most destructive. Opium, heroin, cocaine--they targeted different social classes and groups, but they all destroyed. The Kingdom dealt in such things; Keith wasn’t oblivious or naive. The mob wasn’t a place to nurture a conscience, and Keith found it hard to care about what others did to each other--or what he did to others.

What mattered about the potential drug were two things. First, it meant the Empire was involving its corporation directly. That had never been done: there was a silent entente that the streets were the streets, and the corporations smiled for the cameras and kept their hands clean. Zachariah’s actions meant a radical overhaul of New Meridian--the USA’s, really--dynamics.

No wonder they’d attacked some Althean places too. The Empire had to know that, with GalTech behind them, the Altheans would turn up for their Kingdom. The fighting had gone from bloody and vicious to something paramilitary. 

Second, if the drug got out, it’d be a nightmare to retake the area. Zachariah would protect his domain, and his dealers throughout the world would go to bat for him. Product that’d once been new, like the Stardust shipment the Kingdom had taken, would be obsolete. A drug that could give a high, not kill you, and leave no horrible after effects beyond addiction? That was gold. That was as good as drugs could get. 

“What’s the research point?” Shiro asked. “Is this stuff ready to ship?”

Lothar shook his head. “My mother has brought it to a wall. She’d spent the past two years attempting to find the breakthrough to make the drug relatively harmless, but she’s got nowhere. It has, subsequently, been brought to my laboratory.” His gold eyes sharpened. “I do not appreciate its arrival.”

“Why?” Keith leaned forward. “You stand to make a killing. You haven’t kept your hands snow white with this--you work for your parents--and I doubt you’ve grown a conscience. So why?”

“Because,” Lothar said, fury almost palpable, “I would rather be working on cures to cancer than conducting experiments on addicts. This isn’t the work of Salk or Fleming. This is the pathetic work of a drug lab chemist. I may not be using  _ bath salts _ , and I may be experimenting in a clean facility, but I know where my work leads. I do not want this as my legacy.”

“Then give us something.” Shiro looked Lothar right in the eyes. “Anything. Your father’s crushed opposition. We can fix this, but we need an edge. A location, a person, even a stash of weapons--”

Lothar shook his head. His sandy skin looked grey. “One thing,” he said. “One event. Ten days from now, there’s going to be a demonstration of GalTech developments--drugs, weapons, surveillance tech. It will be at the office in the Barrows, around eleven o’clock at night. I may be there. Refrain from shooting me too.” After that, he turned on his heel and walked back toward the crowd.

It wasn’t just about legacy. Keith knew that. Lothar would inherit GalTech if Zachariah and Honora died. The Empire would fall into his hands as well--or at least to someone whose loyalties belonged to the Daniels family. If Lothar’s hands were clean, everything would continue as normal. 

Did Lothar even truly care about legacy? It was a pretty thing to say in private, but Lothar could make a fortune and go down in history for making such a drug. Of course, he’d risk prison, but when you had more money than God, prison was less likely than people hoped. So did Lothar really care? Maybe. Innovations for curing cancer were more textbook-worthy than making the perfect drug.

If Lothar took over the company, he could fund every bit of research he’d ever wanted to do. That was what Keith hoped he was after. It’d be unfortunate to have to kill him after helping him to the top. “We’ll need to sow some chaos,” Keith muttered when Lothar was out of view.

Shiro eyed the room. “You think he’s planning something too.”

“The Daniels are never honest,” Keith said simply. “And Lothar has no reason to hand over his family just because he doesn’t want to be involved with product. He could have gone to Althea if he’d wanted to just research.”

“Mm. I’ve heard they’ve been fighting recently too. Zachariah wants him to come to New Meridian.” Shiro knocked back his drink. “It’s all about control with these people.” The speech had ended, and the guests had returned to dancing and drinking. Shiro eyed his glass, as though contemplating getting more. He turned to Keith. “We need to see what the docks look like. They’ll be putting their mark on it.”

Keith grimaced and offered Shiro his glass. Shiro took it and threw back the entire flute. “We’ll need to be careful. They’re probably breaking legs to get through to the workers that they belong to the Empire now.”

They went out the back. Keith knew they could have shot up the Hollyhock. With Zachariah and Honora dead, the Empire would go into chaos. What it wouldn’t do was two things: it wouldn’t give Althea back control of the docks, and it wouldn’t leave him and Shiro alive to take that control back. The chaos would have been helpful if there’d been a way for them to take advantage of it and come out of the affair alive. But there wasn’t. It was one of those moments where Keith itched to pull a gun but Shiro’s hand on his shoulder promised better things.

The police thought nothing of them: Shiro and Keith were leaving the party, which obviously meant they’d been invited. One even hurried to their sides and guided them through the mess of barricades and people. Apologies flowed from her mouth whenever they had to stop for someone to clear their shields from the route.

“You have a ride waiting for you?” she asked.

Shiro smiled and nodded. “Of course. Thank you for your help, Officer.”

It was six in the morning. The sun peeked over the horizon, its gaze tentative, as though aware that it shouldn’t be rising yet. They walked along in silence. The streets were empty, while parking garages were packed with cars. A few people were out for a jog or to walk the dog; all of them were rich, wealthy enough to afford the condominium fees of Lancaster and Washington. 

When Keith had been younger, he’d dreamed of living in the area. Everything looked stately and old, like the two streets had been carved from an old area in the East Coast. It was colonial and pretty and everything had a clean white sheen. Expensive brands hung in expensive windows under expensive roofs. It was a trust fund kid’s dream.

Shiro stopped in front of a window display. A fine Canali suit of navy-dyed wool hung in the window. It would have fit his muscular body perfectly, Keith thought. Shiro had the angles to pull off a proper British-cut suit. “The taxis won’t be out for another hour,” Shiro said. “I’d offer to take you to eat, but…”

“Nothing’s open but McDonald’s,” Keith finished. He leaned in to Shiro. “I don’t know. I might miss Egg McMuffins and the dollar menu.”

Shiro grimaced. “We might be going back to that sooner than I’d like to think.” Keith went to his tiptoes to press a kiss to Shiro’s jawline. The grimace vanished, replaced by a lingering half-smile. “You’re going to play it like that, are you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Shiro laughed and reached out to wrap his hand around Keith’s forearm. Keith found himself very interested in how Shiro’s hand looped around completely. “You get like this,” Shiro said, “whenever we do anything dangerous. But two alleys in two days, Keith?”

Keith looked away. The heat inside him twisted. “In my defense, you planned the first.”

“I did,” Shiro conceded. “But not this time. Knowing our luck, Sendak or one of the Empire’s goons would spot us. At least last time we knew they were dead.” Shiro stepped away from the display. To keep Shiro from letting go completely, Keith hurried after.

They walked the empty streets. The docks were miles away, but Keith had walked further in worse conditions than a bit of exhaustion and fear. When a taxi came by, though, he still felt a bit of relief. A firefight in the middle of early morning would have been deadly. There’d be no place to hide, nor people to use as shields. 

The city crept towards life, reluctant as an office worker to wake up. The cab’s windows were open a crack, letting in the smell of damp earth and rain. Clouds overhead were a grey mass. The world reeked of summer despite it. 

Keith tried to fend off sleep. The Xcellerant lingered still, demanding that his body heal faster and faster. Little bruises that would have faded in days now vanished in hours, taxing his body’s reserves. He hadn’t eaten anything but alcohol at Ironsides and the Hollyhock’s champagne. To stop, though, meant to present a target for the Empire. Maybe they’d be able to stop for food along the docks if Fish Food trucks were open. They could even check to see if the operators knew where any remaining Kingdom soldiers were around.

Keith rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. When rain began to sprinkle down, dotting the taxi’s windshield, Keith found himself eager to get out into the open. Maybe it’d wash away a bit of his stress. In the distance, gleaming blue water appeared. The morning boats had left; they’d stay out until they hauled in enough fish or the weather became too horrible to risk. Keith liked to get up early enough to watch them go from the balcony. After they were out of sight, he’d return to bed, usually beside Shiro.

But at the bottom of the ocean’s vista, persimmon flames licked upward. The cabbie jerked the wheel, about to take them down an alley away from the wreckage, but Shiro leaned forward. “Take us closer,” he urged. “We work down here.”

It was a Fish Food truck. Not just one either. Six had been totalled and piled in the middle of a parking lot. Rancid gasoline had doused the metal sidings and interiors, creating a wobbling flame that built to a firestorm that the rain couldn’t drench. Dock workers pointed and murmured to each other, but none of them dared call the police. They had work to get to, after all, and who wanted to be known as the one who talked to police after the change in guard?

“Is that close enough?” the cabbie asked. The response was his two passengers leaving his car. He idled at the parking lot’s mouth as Keith and Shiro edged closer.

The bonfire was a statement. It was an assertion of the new order. Fish Food had been a tool of the Kingdom--and now the Empire had destroyed even the smallest parts of its legacy. The owners were either dead or had fled from New Meridian. Keith thought it was a petty thing to torch them. They were fish and chips trucks, even if they carried messages sometimes. But the point was to hurt morale, and the Empire had succeeded.

The dock workers’ faces were wan and fearful. They shared long looks with friends before they edged past the wreckage. They didn’t look at Shiro or Keith, not even the Kingdom’s former contacts. Keith spotted one dock worker, Kent, who’d always been the one to corral around the Clarkson’s Shipment Company’s dock workers on behalf of his employer. They’d eaten together the week before as Keith talked to him about recruitment and tributes.

Now, Kent wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Keith was surprised he was still alive. Rain dampened his own suit, but it didn’t manage to calm him.

This was the end of everything Keith had ever worked for. It was the end of everything he’d done with Shiro. They could either leave, fleeing to the southern states or East Coast, or make a stand and try to cobble together something from the ashes. It wouldn’t ever be the same. None of it would be. The Empire had effectively torched everything.

When they returned to the cab, they didn’t call the police either. The cabbie looked angry, but said nothing. Shiro gave a new address this time: it was to their motel room, away from the downtown core or docks, and back to the no man’s land of the outskirts. 

Keith spoke despite himself. “It’s finished, then.” Shiro turned his head to look at Keith. “Everything’s… gone.” His exhaustion worsened. He missed the rain already, even if it hadn’t helped. “Zachariah’s plans are huge, Shiro. This is more than a squabble over territory--”

“I know.” Shiro stared past Keith, looking at the grey sky. “If we stay, we probably die. But this is what we built. Do you want to walk away from it?”

Yes. “No,” he admitted. New Meridian was all he had. If he left, he’d need to drain the accounts and set up elsewhere. It meant losing his reputation, his properties, maybe even Shiro. He wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near the Pacific. If the Empire spread far enough, it might even take out the south within a decade.

Zachariah wanted everything. Not pieces, not fragments: the more he had, the happier he was. And he wouldn’t let an old Kingdom hand live in peace back in Arizona. 

It wasn’t just that, though. It wasn’t just a fear for his life and property. He’d worked for years to ingrain the Kingdom into the hearts of New Meridian. He’d killed for the Kingdom--for his own benefit too. Every inch of New Meridian had once been promised to him by his dreams. Becoming more than a Lion had been the goal. He’d wanted to reach the top. He’d be in the bigger meetings: the meetings where all the Altheans showed up, not just Allura and a few of her assistants.

The docks was meant to be the foundation to everything. He’d forged connections and grudging relationships based on respect for how well he fought. The docks were not Althea’s. They were the Lions’. They belonged to him and Shiro. Althea only got them on loan.

But now, they were gone. From people to the trucks to the places Keith had once protected at the risk of his own life. He looked at Shiro and knew his thoughts were mirrored. Neither of them could walk away from it. They’d come to New Meridian as rising stars. What was the point in running away when they were full-fledged mobsters?

“If we do this,” Keith said quietly, “we do this knowing we put in  _ everything _ . I still have contacts in Arizona and Los Angeles. You’re going to see things you don’t like.”

Shiro looked away. “... Same. But I can’t let this go. The Empire’s going to take everything they can. If we move, they’ll just follow us. And Keith? New Meridian’s all I’ve ever had.”

Vulnerable, too vulnerable, even if they were Keith’s thoughts too. It felt like they’d both rolled over to expose their bellies. Neither would swipe, not yet, but Keith had felt less vulnerable in cuffs with Shiro looming over him. The vulnerability worsened at the reply that reached his lips before he swallowed it back down.

_ You’ve got me. _

Instead, he said, “We need a better car for this.”

Shiro nodded. “And the others back. I’ll call; you count up the money we have. There’s another stash in Hazelbrook if we need more.”

Hazelbrook was a thirty minute drive from New Meridian. Doable in the pickup truck junker they had, at least. Plus, Hazelbrook would be less watched. They could buy a car and drive down to Los Angeles. From there, Arizona, and then further east to where Shiro had got his start. Face to face, they might be able to get weapons and pressure those they’d known.

Keith thought about that as he counted up bills. There were people who’d be less than happy to see him in town again. If they called, Keith didn’t doubt they’d hang up--or just never answer. But if he could speak to them, he could remind them of old debts and favours. Oh, they’d probably pull at least a knife on him, but they’d remember. They’d know what each tie that bound them and Keith together meant. 

It was just a matter of getting the places. The Empire owned Vegas, which could act as a strike-base, but Los Angeles was fragmented and Arizona wasn’t on anyone’s map for organized crime. From what Keith knew, Shiro had got his start in New York City and had done time in Miami. It was going to be a hell of a roadtrip to do, but getting on planes meant screening, which might turn up on the Empire’s radar. Keith knew they were embedded deep in the government. They had billions in contract work, after all.

Shiro called them in order of service. Hunk had been around the longest; then it was Lance, who’d been around for three years. Finally, Pidge was called. Lance had picked up, even if Hunk hadn’t.  _ He’s in the bathroom. I’ll let him know we should turn around. We’ll stay in Seattle until you guys are ready. Hit us at this number.  _

Pidge was already in San Francisco with her family. It wasn’t safe, Shiro told her, even if she had set up drones and cameras and had a gun in the house. The Empire had reach across the coast. But Pidge said she was moving her family on a trip out of the country-- _ I’ve heard Costa Rica is good this time of year,  _ she’d told them on speakerphone. Ahead of them, the cabbie’s waxy face had paled from sallow to ashen. 

She agreed to be in contact. She wasn’t going to stay in San Francisco. “I think I’m going to hole up in NorCal,” she said. “Nice little rural place or something. You can find me at this number.” She swallowed audibly. “I’ll have the tech ready. Don’t call unless you’re ready.” The phone beeped as she hung up.

And that was it. The battle lines were drawn. All Shiro and Keith needed to do was arm their side and prepare for the war. Ten days to work--not much when they’d be travelling across the US. From New Meridian to Los Angeles, to Arizona’s boonies, to New York City, and then down to Miami. It’d be the most driving Keith had done since he’d left the Dead Man’s Hand. He was going to have to revisit that past in more ways than he’d ever wanted to. 

They dumped the phone--not by a gutter or a garbage can, but sold to a pawnshop on the cheap. It added back to their little nest of money. By the time they reached the motel, it was mid-morning and the taxi fare had rung up to something obscene. The pawnshop money paid the due.

“We need to talk,” Shiro said when they got out of the cab and to their motel room. Keith didn’t go in--the room stank of moulding blood. Shiro stood on the walkway, his arms crossed. “... You’re going to see things you don’t like if we both do this.”

Keith raised a brow. “Likewise. I don’t talk about it for a reason. I figured it was the same for you--hell, we mentioned this earlier.”

Shiro seemed to struggle, though. His jaw was tight, and he averted his eyes from Keith. Worry jabbed Keith in the stomach. He’d known Shiro since they’d both been recruited in New Meridian. Shiro had been 26 and a star in racketeering and protection money. Keith had been 23 and just out of L.A. They hadn’t taken time between flirting and bed to really get to know each other. Why bother when one of them could be dead the next day?

“It’s not that simple--”

Keith bit back annoyance. “Stop fucking around, Takashi.” Okay, so he hadn’t bit it back well. “Did you kill your parents? Rape someone? Murder a kid?” Shiro jerked his head in a ‘no’. “Then I’m not going to have a problem with what I find.” Not when he’d done worse.

“... I’ll hold you to that.”

Ominous, but then Keith had heard worse from people who actually meant him harm. “Let’s just check the truck and get out of here.”

Shiro sighed. “Knowing our luck, it’ll be wired.”

And that was the mood for the next twenty minutes. Shiro had been bitten by the black dog, as he tended to be when things got stressful and his cock wasn’t in the mood, and Keith tried to ignore the mutters and hissed curses. Keith’s occasional assertions that things were fine, they were fine, it’d be only a few minutes more--those were grudgingly taken, soothing Shiro for only a minute or two.

Keith gave Shiro the driver’s seat. He needed an outlet, evidently. “I’ll keep an eye out for cops and anyone following us. We just need to get straight to Hazelbrook.”  _ You can do that, right? _ went unsaid. 

Shiro muttered something in reply. Keith decided not to question or push. The drive was slow. Not because traffic was bad--next to nobody worked in the outskirts, and rush hour was over for those commuting in--but because they had to play it safe. Cop cars abounded. With the recent death and destruction across the city, an unofficial lockdown had been initiated. Police brass were still pretending that they could do anything about it. In a few days, when the worst of the panic had passed, the cops would find themselves moved to new beats.

Beats, Keith thought, that had been carefully approved by the Empire. Just like the cops’ old beats had been approved of by people like Pidge and Hunk. Very few cops knew this--why would they? It was brass being paid off, it was Altheans in the government, and it was easy to keep away cops’ attention when the streets were, objectively, ridiculously clean.

That had been the Althean way. Carnage and problems were kept to gangs and mobs. They didn’t shoot up the downtown. They didn’t kill people who weren’t involved. Althea greased the machinery of New Meridian with money, turning life pleasant to anyone who wasn’t an enemy. If they needed people to be away from a location, they paid them off. The massacre in Harrowfield was a once-in-a-decade event. It’d been meant as a Ragnarok for the Empire. It was supposed to have chased them away.

So fucking much for that.

Keith wondered how the Empire would operate. Would massacres be common? What about public rackets? The Empire had always operated in a way that eschewed paying more money. The Empire cared about profits more than it did ease of operation. Allura had been willing to spend ten percent of Althea’s underground operating costs in New Meridian on bribes.

Zachariah didn’t strike him as the type to eat the cost. Keith didn’t claim to know Zachariah Daniels well. The man was a tyrant and titan. He’d taken old money that’d been dwindling for a century and forged an empire--not in the flashy technologies that Althea loved, but in backbone industries. Steel manufacturing. Electrical services. Telecommunications carriers. Althea sold the technology the Empire used--walking into an Althean technology shop was standard, but in most places, the only carrier was an Empire offshoot.

Allura hated it. She’d had a handful of start-ups get crushed by unfair practices. The only reply she’d been able to send was the destruction of the Empire’s cell phone manufacturing ventures. It was tit for tat and utterly pointless, but it’d relieved Allura of a bit of frustration.

He flopped back in his seat. Shiro reached over to tap him on the leg. Keith grunted back. “You’re tired?” Shiro asked.

Keith shrugged. “We should stop by a place in Hazelbrook--diner or even McDonald’s. I don’t know how you’re not hungry.”

“I don’t eat like a bird,” was the reply. “You picked at toast for breakfast. I told you to eat more.”

Because he’d figured they’d get a heavy lunch after arranging things on the docks, and then Harrowfield had happened. Keith slid down a bit in his seat. “You’re frustrated about what I’m going to see.” Shiro’s mouth clicked closed. “You think, despite what I said, that I’m going to clutch my pearls or swoon. Or worse--judge you.” Keith turned his head to scrutinize Shiro. The man’s teeth were grinding, and the tendons of his jaw twitched. “Get me something to eat, and I’ll let you bitch at me in frustration. But until I have a burger, I’m not going to be nagged.”

Shiro didn’t say that he hated Keith. He didn’t complain or snarl or even glare. His gaze turned back to the road completely, his shoulders slumping. By the time they reached Hazelbrook, it’d begun to drizzle again. The sound of windshield wipers squeaking over the truck’s glass was the only thing that interrupted the silent interior.

Shiro drove them to the local McDonald’s. Keith didn’t thank him aloud--it’d only send him back on edge. The restaurant was quiet that time of day. All the kids were in school still, while parents were at work. Keith ate enough for two people, while all Shiro seemed to be able to stomach was a single order of fries and a milkshake that he insisted on dunking his fries into.

Keith tried not to judge him. He’d got the lecture before on the sublime combination of sweet and salty, and Keith honestly couldn’t find it in himself to endure it again. Instead, he focused on his burger. When they finished, the silence between them had once again become comfortable. The bad blood had filtered through both of them.

Shiro took the wheel again. “Used,” he asked, “or new?”

“Used,” Keith said. “Leaves us wiggle room if something goes wrong.”

Shiro turned on the radio in the pickup. Only one speaker worked--the one on Shiro’s side. They fell back into silence as they drove to Hazelbrook’s Bank of America. In another little safe was another little stash. This time, around twenty grand. No weapons, but backup identification. Keith slipped his passport into his suit jacket. It left them with a little less than thirty grand--enough to get them to where they needed to go.

Hazelbrook had only a single car dealer. It was too small to support multiple, and New Meridian was big enough to have the luxury dealers. Murphy’s was a dumpy little parking lot with a building barely big enough for five people to work. Some of their cars looked barely roadworthy, let alone skyway approved. Keith suspected the place wasn’t automated either. They didn’t have enough money coming through for that.

Shiro drove them to the door. Keith didn’t bother with a plastered-on smile, but Shiro was always game for those. The man who greeted them was pot-bellied and pleased to have customers. He didn’t even seem to care that they were dressed far better than their vehicle, or that they’d come from New Meridian.

“Used places there overcharge,” Robert claimed. “Not out here, though! We know what things are worth.” He spoke with a heavy Texan accent. “What kind of vehicle are you two looking for?”

Robert was an interesting guy. In the thirty minutes they roved the parking lot, Keith knew more about Robert’s background than he did Shiro’s. Robert had grown up in San Antonio but hated the heat. He’d come out West with money from time as a finance whiz. Cars had always been his passion, and at the ripe old age of thirty five, he’d set up the business with his wife and two daughters. Half the business was in collecting cars people saw as junk; the other half was running a restoration business that was, according to Robert, the best in western Oregon. 

Robert was so self-absorbed he never asked a single question about Keith or Shiro. Keith appreciated that. People who didn’t give a shit as to what was going on around them were the easiest to deal with. A sharp salesman would have asked about budget or taken note of their expensive clothes and poor vehicle. They’d have asked if Keith and Shiro were buying for someone else, or had had a recent breakdown in their real car. But Robert didn’t give a single lone shit.

He didn’t even try to up the price on the Ford SUV they bought. He just told them a flat price, no haggling. And maybe that was the point, because in return, Shiro and Keith didn’t argue. He wanted ten thousand dollars, and he got the ten thousand dollars. Even better, Keith’s estimation had been right. Everything at Murphy’s was on paper. If the Empire wanted to search for their movements or their transport, they’d have to wait weeks for everything to process. 

Keith had spent enough time at the DMV to hate paperwork, but for once in his life, he didn’t mind filling out everything by hand.

They couldn’t give him the pickup. They didn’t have the papers for that, and they played it off as belonging to someone else. Robert was completely understanding before he launched into how he was doing a restoration project on a ‘61 Chevy. By the time they got out, it’d been another hour. The sun was at its peak.

Shiro yawned despite himself. “Off a bridge,” he asked when they were in the SUV, “or dumped in the woods?”

Keith scratched at his cheek. His stubble felt like little knives. “Water’s better. If we get it to the right place, nobody’ll notice for months, if ever.” Besides, it’d give something for the fish to explore. Shiro agreed. The new SUV had a GPS built in, and he used it to find a good isolated river. Keith left him to it.

The pickup felt claustrophobic after the cushy interior of the SUV. Keith adjusted the mirrors as he waited for Shiro to drive. They ended up dumping the pickup at a rusty old bridge. There was a launching point for boats opposite where they pushed the truck in. They’d rolled down all the windows, siphoned its remaining gas, and removed anything of note from their travel with it.

Keith helped steer the truck into the water before he jumped out, leaving the door open as Shiro gave it a final shove from behind. The water gurgled as it swallowed the truck whole. The rusted sides blended neatly, but the rest of it remained red. “How deep does the river go?” Keith asked.

Shiro grimaced, pulling off his shoes and trousers. “Not deep enough.”

It took twenty minutes to get it deep enough. They were covered in muck by the end. In silent agreement, they both stripped to their undershirts and boxers. Atop the SUV, they stretched out their clothes after using the river water to get the worst of the mud out from the trousers and socks. 

The river flowed ahead of them. They’d need to move in a bit--people would notice and might investigate the area otherwise--but for a few minutes, the sun baked their clothes and they got to rearrange the SUV to something decent. Keith made a mental list of what they’d need to pick up in California. Clothes, snacks, more phones, gifts for those they were going to ask help from, and pillows for when they slept. As nice as it would be to rest in a hotel, that wasn’t in the cards. 

Keith hung his legs out from the open car door. Shiro kept touching Keith’s hair. Keith didn’t mind, but he wondered how absent the motion was to him. So much of what they did was subconscious. Keith found himself always leaning in to Shiro, or reaching up to touch Shiro’s cheek. It wasn’t something he thought about: he just… did it.

And that was going to be a problem around people like hyper-macho bikers. He and Shiro got away with little things because they were near the top, it was New Meridian, and people could write off the small touches as just friends. So long as neither of them sucked face, it was all good.

It wasn’t going to be like that among the Dead Man’s Hand. Guys didn’t touch each other unless they were punching or slapping each other on the back. Shiro carding his fingers through Keith’s hair would declare them fairies to anyone outside of big cities.

Keith didn’t know how they’d hide it--or what they’d say if any of the Hand noticed. Keith liked to think he still had a few friends among them, even as he’d burned a few bridges. But he knew their limits. If Jeremiah thought Keith had done more than betray the Hand, betrayed Jeremiah’s ideals period, there’d be more than fists involved. Guns would be pulled.

Jeremiah’s affection had always come with strings, after all. It struck Keith, then, that maybe he wasn’t overly comfortable introducing Shiro to his past either. He’d thought Shiro was being paranoid, but what would Shiro think of the Hand? Or the role Keith had played in it? It wasn’t the glitz or prestige of the Kingdom. There’d been… mistakes. Inevitably. The biggest one had been in Arizona. 

Rape, child-killing, and murdering parents. Those were the rules he’d given Shiro. Don’t do that, and you were clean. But that one mistake in Arizona casted a long shadow over everything else.

Eventually, they gathered their clothes and laid them out in the backseat. “I drive,” Shiro said, as though Keith was in the mood to challenge him. “First Habit Burger we see, we’re stopping by.”

“We’re going to gain ten pounds on this trip.” Keith buckled himself in. They were going to do this. They didn’t have a choice. Discomfort was irrelevant. 

The immediate concern, as they drove away from Hazelbrook, was that no cop or trooper pulled them over while they were in undershirts and boxers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is the 6th!


	4. Chapter 4

Shiro liked ‘70s music. It was a plague on Keith’s life usually, but trapped in a car with him for what Google said was seventy eight hours straight? It could have been better. They engaged in a cold war of volume-changing. Keith would turn it down while Shiro went to piss at the gas station; when Keith went in the next time, the volume was back up.

It was roadtrip Purgatory accompanied by Supertramp. Keith didn’t even have something to read as they drove--all the gas stations either didn’t have books, or had Harlequin romances. The phone, meanwhile, couldn’t be used. The upside was that they’d managed to collect a tidy pile of food, water, and pillows, and the SUV was big enough to hold it all.

At Medford, they were finally able to stop for longer than ten minutes. They both bought clothes that weren’t suits--Shiro in a tank and jeans, Keith in a tee and khakis. Keith hadn’t been at a Walmart in years. Somehow, the experience hadn’t changed. Keith picked up another two phones and a book. Shiro grabbed an MP3 player, a throwback for Keith. Shiro disappeared with a hundred bucks and returned with it packed to the brim with music.

“I paid some bearded hipster at the Starbucks,” was the only explanation. Keith recognized it for the concession it was. Indie music was Keith’s thing--that, and classic rock from the ‘80s. Keith tried not to sigh in relief when the MP3 player was connected to the SUV’s stereo. The first song was from the Cure. It was above anything by ELO.

It was fifteen hours between New Meridian and Los Angeles--more with traffic, if moderated by a lead foot. Shiro took to wearing sunglasses. It made him look like a douche, but Keith didn’t tell him that. Bon Iver took centre stage for two hours. By the end, Shiro sent them right back to ‘70s music.

The only good thing-- _one_ good thing--was that he didn’t like disco. Shiro wouldn’t make him endure the Bee Gees. Sacramento came and went in the middle of the night. They knew they were close to LA not just by the traffic, but the cloud of smog in the sky.

“I can’t believe you spent four years here,” Shiro said. “There are so many people and you--don’t. You don’t do people.”

“It’s better than New York,” was Keith’s reply, “and the weather’s nicer too.”

Shiro made a face. It looked like the bastard child of a grimace and wince. “Having less people than New York City isn’t an achievement. Why’d you come here?” Shiro paused, as though chewing over another thought. “... Who did you meet here?”

Being a gangster, mobster, mafia man, _whatever_ didn’t come with a resume. People knew people, and you would mine a connection until the vein ran dry. For Keith, Los Angeles had been his goldmine--and it’d been where he’d got out of the southwest. He’d run from the Dead Man’s Hand to LA hoping he’d join another biker group. But outside of rural Arizona and Josiah's exception for Keith, everything seemed tied to race. Sons of Samoa for the Samoans--where he’d met Hunk--and whites for the Peckerwood gangs. For someone who was Asian, that kept his options to a few enterprising cartels, the yakuza, or the triads if he was willing to say he was Vietnamese, Cambodian, or Chinese.

The future was multiracial, though--even its crime. Hunk was Samoan-American and knew how to wield bombs and heavy artillery. Keith had met him once in LA during a squabble over cocaine shipments. He’d been the one to recruit Hunk when New Meridian’s Kingdom began to blossom.

Keith had joined a corporation’s operations, the Varley Group. They were new blood, hungry for recruits, with a particular eye for smuggling that’d earn Allura’s interest a few years later. They’d brought him in with a more modern understanding than the old ways of the mafia. The Varley Group didn’t pretend like the Kingdom did that they were separate from the blood and drugs. The Varley Group was a family from the south who wanted to expand. They were almost naive in their hopes. They’d made their fortunes in oil and mining; now, they planned to make it with meth and trafficking.

The Varley Group didn’t believe in blood ties or loyalty without a paycheck. They’d been neither pleased nor surprised when Keith left. The only professional courtesy he’d shown was in not talking about their secrets.

Shiro didn’t ask questions as they inched through traffic. Instead, he chatted about places in New York that he wanted to see: old pizza joints, hole in the wall omakase places, the juiciest burgers he’d ever tasted, soul food places that weren’t on the map but had the kind of food you’d die twice to eat. Keith tried to think of any place he could show Shiro.

There was a single barbecue place in Arizona. He didn’t know if it was still open, or if he’d be welcome. In LA? There’d been a tapas place by the apartment building he stayed in. They’d known him by name and what dish he ordered by a Monday to Sunday schedule. None of them had known he was involved in crime. They didn’t even know how old he was, or where he was from. Keith had been set on forgetting Arizona. Even if Arizona was what had got him in with the Varley Group.

“What angle are you going to take?” Shiro finally asked. They were at a Denny’s. Two platters of food surrounded Shiro, while Keith kept himself to a small sandwich and smoothie. Shiro’s nerves were on display, just like Keith’s. “You left on good terms? Or do you have enemies still?”

Keith frowned at his smoothie. “... Both.” Shiro snorted. _Of course it’d be like that_ went unsaid. It annoyed Keith. It wasn’t a him-problem, though. But Shiro didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t the grudge some people had, convinced Keith was his own worst enemy or deserved the hate he got. It was Shiro laughing because of course that would be the situation. Of course they’d be up shit creek, both of them reaching out to people who still hated them or wanted them to fail.

He was being oversensitive. What Keith needed to do was pull a Shiro: eat, have something to drink, and listen to a decent song or two before a nap. Everything looked better after that. He ordered a giant plate of eggs and steak and focused on that instead of ruminating. After they ate, they migrated back to the SUV and slept in a Walmart parking lot. Keith tried not to think back to his time with his father. He barely remembered it except for the cold nights hidden away from the cops.

The few hours of rest gave Keith just enough of a boost to use one of their phones. The Varley Group had multiple levels to it, despite the relative transparency of its ties. There were those at the very top--part of the Moretti family, the owners--then upper management, then street management, all the way to footsoldiers. Keith had worked in street management before climbing to an advisory role in upper management. A few people had said he’d sucked dick for it, but Keith didn’t much care what the gossip was concerning him. So long as it didn’t end with someone fragging him from behind, at least.

He called Claire first. Her secretary paused at the name he gave. “Benjamin Fisher?”

“She’ll know the name.” He hoped. It’d been his fake name to anyone legitimate who’d asked about his presence. Keith Kogane gave too many search results for him to feel really comfortable with. Benjamin Fisher was generic enough for his purposes.

When the secretary came back to the phone, he felt her pursed lips. “Ms. Moretti says she’s unsure of who you are. I advise contacting us with further information in the future.” And then the woman hung the fuck up.

Keith frowned at the phone. It was tainted now. Oh, they could use it one or two more times, but eventually the Empire would find them through it. He used the second call for Jacob Moretti; nobody picked up. The third call was blocked by Vanessa Moretti, which meant word had got around already at his return.

To which he had one thing to say: _fuck_ them. Keith took the phone apart and ripped out the battery. There’d be no further tracing. The Empire knew they were in LA now, though, and they’d be coming. If they came by plane, they’d come in small numbers, if in two and some hours. But if the Empire sent a unit, he and Shiro had fourteen hours.

Why were the Morettis stonewalling him? The answer was easy. They didn’t want to wade into a fight that was, by all accounts, already lost. Keith had left suddenly and had joined faction that wanted to take over LA. Oh, he hadn’t backstabbed them on purpose or got any of the Morettis killed. But he’d walked away after a single major fuckup. He wished he had alcohol.

Shiro watched him, silent. “I’m guessing it’s not good.”

“No,” Keith said, flopping back. “Not really.” Grudges were forever in Italian crime families. The Varley Group was a business, sure, and it didn’t quite do the traditions of the old country, but the grudge was something in the blood. If he’d been in the yakuza, he would have lost a few fingers for what he’d done.

Shiro seemed to chew over Keith’s failure as they drove back on to a highway. “... Is there a reason they wouldn’t want to talk to you?”

Shiro knew of the Varley Group, not of the Morettis. The Morettis prefered high society life--canapes, art galleries, premieres of the fanciest movies, fundraising galas. They didn’t get their hands dirty. They weren’t Allura, who took an exceptional interest in the Kingdom’s business. The Varley Group was distinct from the Morettis. It had their support, but they wouldn’t bleed for the organization, nor would they incorporate its tactics into legitimate enterprises.

The Morettis were almost shockingly naive, barring the family matriarch Claire.

None of his thoughts were helpful. “We need to get to Trousdale. The Morettis have a mansion there. Someone should be keeping an eye on the place while the others hide in Malibu.” Was he bitter? Just a little bit. He’d dedicated years of his life to them, and just because he’d fucked up a single shipment before leaving, Claire pretended she’d never heard of him? The sting of guilt mixed with the fury in his veins.

The anger wouldn’t have been so keen if the issue hadn’t been so important. The Varley Group was the closest connection he had to New Meridian. Shiro’s ties to Miami weren’t going to be able to send people to the West Coast. Not like the Morettis could if talked into it. And the Dead Man’s Hand--well, who knew how they were going to act.

The drive to Trousdale took longer than it should ever have. Traffic choked LA’s streets, and Keith remembered, keenly, why he’d been so eager to leave for New Meridian. Both cities were metropolises, but New Meridian’s growth had been carefully guided by the corporations that’d taken over, and the skyways had helped alleviate the worst of the chaos.

They feasted on Twizzlers as they drove. Their fingers turned sticky and Keith felt like a raw mass of sugar had taken form in his stomach, but they laughed as they had to yank the strands apart, and Shiro only whacked him once in the face with a Twizzler. Keith took it as a victory.

The Moretti mansion wasn’t the largest in Trousdale. It would have been gauche to display wealth like that--new money, bourgeois, _tacky_. The Morettis came from old money in southern Italy, and they refused to let anyone forget how cultured and esteemed they were.  Claire Moretti was the type to donate a rare million-dollar painting to the gallery of an enemy just to see them squirm.

She didn’t forget slights. She didn’t care to make friends who weren’t on her level. If she didn’t recognize your name, she didn’t recognize any worth to you. Keith had been one of the very few exceptions. ‘Kogane’ was a nothing name, blatantly unItalian, but Keith’s Arizonan origins intrigued her. The first time they’d met, she’d asked if he’d been friends with anyone Italian.

Keith had thought about lying, but he’d played it honest. _No_.

Claire had pursed her mulberry-painted lips. _It might have done you some good._

The insult hadn’t stopped her from hiring him--and the hiring hadn’t stopped her from trying to culture him. It was, he’d determined, a pet project of hers. Claire was elegant, her father from a line of counts and her mother from a line of Ghanaian gold barons. Her education had cost hundreds of thousands, and it showed. She spoke six languages, could talk at length about Dutch Golden Age painters, and fully believed that wine was more than a tool to get drunk.

He’d been a philistine in her eyes. But a _good_ philistine. A useful philistine. He knew how to fight and he knew how the underworld worked. The closest Claire had got to the underworld before the Varley Group was when her chaffeur took her through an underpass.

“You’re sure she won’t shoot you?” Shiro asked.

Keith shrugged. “If she does it, it’s going to be with a peashooter.” She liked to carry a snub-nosed pistol in an Hermes bag. “But honestly, I think she’ll talk. She’s just covering her ass if the Empire looks south and starts asking questions.”

The reality was that the Varley Group would eventually rub up against the Empire. It was in their interests to topple the Empire’s tower--but that didn’t mean they’d be eager to save the Kingdom in the process. It wasn’t a work of genius to realize that the Kingdom had similar plans to the Empire, if on a less ‘crossing the streams’ level. The Kingdom wouldn’t involve their pharmaceuticals holdings in making drugs. The Empire would.

Keith thought that might be enough to get Claire onboard. The Morettis’ holdings were nice, bringing in millions of dollars a year, paying for a Trousdale house and a few places on Malibu’s shorelines. The Morettis were wealthy. But they didn’t have the conglomerate the Kingdom or Empire did. If they wanted to fight the Empire, they had a lot of work to do.

What made the biggest difference between Zachariah Daniels and Allura Althea was that Allura would go to the table. She’d absorb the Varley Group and let the Morettis operate it. Daniels would swallow it like a snake. Then, if Claire said anything about losing everything, Daniels might crush her family’s legal ventures. That was how Daniels worked. He’d done it to other factions before--and he’d have done it to Althea if it’d been a quarter smaller.

The Moretti Trousdale mansion had a wrought iron gate with posted security. They couldn’t climb the fence in the daylight, so Keith decided to be blunt. Shiro drove up to the gate, and Keith rolled down the window. The guards stirred like roused bees. Some eyed him, their hands drifting down to the belts, both to posture and prepare to draw.

Keith wished he and Shiro had an armoured vehicle. All it took was one dumbass with a gun to stop them in the SUV. “I’m hoping to speak with Claire Moretti,” he said to a tall ginger man. “It’s Keith Kogane. I worked for her a few years back.”

The ginger man snorted. “You and a thousand others.” He looked down his nose at Keith. Keith knew what he saw--a slim, tired, and pale man with unruly black hair and a dazed look in his eyes from lack of sleep. In the right light, he might have looked high as a kite.

Keith shrugged. “I was an advisor for her LA renewal project.” The man stiffened. So he knew _something_ about what the Morettis were doing. It made Keith’s job easier. “I have some news about that for her, but her secretary’s stonewalling me. Tell Ms. Moretti that the reaper’s knocking.”

The man laughed this time. “Trying to be edgy, kid?”

Keith said nothing. He waited, waited until faint discomfort tinged the man’s chalky skin a bit grey, like a cloud over the sun. The Reaper wasn’t something of Keith’s doing. It’d been Claire’s nephew, Mitchell, who’d been in his second year of university. He’d seen Keith’s handiwork once. Mitchell had thought, then, that he understood the underworld.

He didn’t. He’d thought it was cool--like a video game. He’d never seen the dead while they were alive, nor had he seen their final moments. Just the carnage as his limo drove him to class, Keith in the backseat, armed and wary. Mitchell had called Keith his own personal reaper. The name had spread through the Morettis.

Keith hadn’t cared for it. He hadn’t been paid to complain, though. The ginger slunk away to a booth by the wrought iron gates. Someone would call Claire, and it’d be up to her--or whichever family member was there--to answer. The best he could hope for was Mitchell. The worst? Probably Claire.

No one came to tell them who’d picked up, or to move along. The wrought iron gates buzzed open, receding into trimmed bushes. Heat withered the flowers that spotted them; petals dusted the ground, brilliant whites that wilted to grey.

“We going?” Shiro asked, his voice soft.

Keith hated the tone. It felt like kid gloves, and those were for the weak. “Pull in. Let me talk.” And preferably, he thought, don’t listen to what anyone said. Saying that would only encourage Shiro, though. Shiro would think it was a problem, and Shiro fixed problems.

The road to the Moretti mansion was like a noose. A long, straight road with two sides for passing cars, and then a circle that cars could snake around, delivering their overpriced and overrated cargo before heading out again. Little roads led off of the noose to the right--into the garages the Morettis filled with expensive cars.

Keith didn’t expect anyone to greet them, but someone waited at the stairs into the house. They wore grey and blues clothes, hard to discern from so far away, but the clearer the figure became, the more unease filled Keith. It was too short for Claire and too slim for Mitchell. It was when he saw the mohawk that he knew the person.

Nicole. Fucking _Nicole_. If he’d had a choice, he’d had made Shiro turn them around using the manicured grass. He’d been wrong. The worst person that could be at the mansion was Nicole, not Claire. At least Claire had some amused affection for him.

They pulled up right in front of the stairs. Nicole had her arms crossed, her hips cocked, and a contemptuous smile on her face. Her clay-brown eyes fixed on him. When Shiro stopped, Keith didn’t want to get out. He forced himself to, straightening, and marched up the stairs to face Nicole.

“You have more balls than any man I know,” Nicole said, “to turn up _here_ after you left--after your meal ticket failed you. Are you back to beg your way into my mother’s graces? Well, you’re shit out of luck. She’s in Vanuatu for a vacation.”

Which left Nicole as the top dog. “And you’re smarter than this.” Nicole leaned back, waiting. She had to know what he was going to say. “He’ll come for you after us.”

Nicole scrutinized him. “... Get in. Don’t get comfortable.” She turned on her heavy black boots and marched into a marble interior. The mansion was white and gleaming, with lush Turkish carpets and expensive paintings from artists whose names he’d never know.

Keith followed; Shiro parked the SUV and hurried after. Keith wanted to tell him to wait in the SUV, but that wasn’t fair to Shiro. If there was a time to be unfair, though, maybe this was it. By the time that thought had sunk in, Shiro was out of the SUV, a thin-lipped smile on his face. Shiro knew things were fucked up. At least Keith wouldn’t have to warn him things were about to get uncomfortable.

Nicole led them through the glassy foyer, down a hall decorated in pastel flower motifs and bright paintings, into a wide open living room of white furniture and steel, and then a kitchen at the very back. It took minutes to reach it. When they did, Keith forced himself not to stare. It was a wide rectangular room, open and lined with glass walls that looked out at a pale blue pool and white deck. They’d renovated it since he left. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but part of him found the difference eerie, like he was a ghost walking through places he’d once known.

Nicole pulled a smoothie carton from the fridge and sat on a stool around the island. “Mother wants nothing to do with this.”

“I’m not surprised,” Keith said. He took a seat opposite Nicole. Shiro stood behind him. “Claire doesn’t know the details yet, does she?”

Nicole grimaced and took a swig from the carton straight. When she came up for air, she looked only a little better. “Not a damn thing. Hell, we don’t know what’s going on either. We just know Daniels put your little Kingdom over his knee and broke your fucking backs. I’m amazed you got out of New Meridian alive.”

“We are too,” Shiro said. Nicole eyed him like a hunk of meat on a butcher’s hook. Faint approval lingered in her topaz eyes. She looked at Keith and raised a single eyebrow. _He yours?_ she seemed to say.

Keith refused to acknowledge it. “It was close. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Daniels is coming for the entire western seaboard.”

“Tell me what you know.”

Keith couldn’t tell her everything. It wasn’t smart to spill every secret, and Nicole would have thought less of him if he’d shared that much. But Keith told her about Daniels’ plan to expand, taking out each gang and group, absorbing them into his Empire or destroying them completely. The Kingdom’s destruction was a step. Oh, it might take Daniels a few years to work his way down to Los Angeles, but he was coming. He had decades left to his life. If he wanted to take it slow, he knew how to do it.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, person by person, Daniels would devour the coast. The Varley Group was another obstacle, but by the time the Empire reached Los Angeles, it’d be too late to stop the avalanche. The Morettis could either help the Kingdom regain its territory--thus slowing the Empire--or they could leave the Kingdom to die, providing Daniels with a chance to snowball along the coast.

“Bullshit,” was what Nicole said in the ensuing silence. Keith stared her down. She swished the remaining smoothie in the carton before she leaned in to sniff the contents. “The Kingdom was going to do the same, weren't you? Except Allura would have a lot more time in which to do it. If you think you can frighten us into arming you, Keith, you’ve read us wrong.”

Shit. Did he tell her about Lothar’s work, or pull at their old ties? The latter were dusty and damaged, while the former could lead to the Morettis selling out Lothar to get ahead in the game. Nicole was waiting for a reply. He tried to stall by digging through his suit jacket for cigarettes. He was going to have to do the latter first, at least an attempt with it.

“Everyone wants to grow,” he said. Shiro, who loomed behind him, stiffened. “Your family’s done the same. But there’s a difference between growth and destruction. Daniels will burn everything to the ground before he sees something not be his--even if it means using GalTech product. You know that he’s been listening in on you? All the carriers across North America belong to the Daniels.”

Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “... I didn’t know that.”

Which was, frankly, a victory. “You do now. If you’ve ever spoken business over the phone, the Daniels have it on record. They can and _will_ use that against you. The moment it becomes in their interest to know it, they’ll know it. They’re bringing it everything the corporation has at its disposal. Althea has the same amount of tech--but we didn’t think it fair to use it.”

“That makes you more idiots than martyrs, Keith.”

Keith shrugged. “Think that if you want. But Allura believes in rules.” ‘Believed’ if she was dead, which the news hadn’t confirmed or denied. “We didn’t fuck with the medicine other groups used. We didn’t use the banks to track shipments. It was a gentleman’s--gentlewoman’s--game. We understood that if we started using them, that meant everyone else could use theirs too. Tell me, how do you think your family holds up in the marketplace if Althea starts using the banking system--or the Daniels keep using telecoms against their enemies?”

The Morettis didn’t have anything. They were mining and oil--lucrative, yes, but useless. Foot soldiers didn’t need raw copper or crude. They needed cutting edge technology. They need phones with unbreakable security, the ability to gather information from sources outside of reach, and weapons that’d shame the US military. If Althea unleashed itself, it would have been the strongest faction in the country, rivalled only by GalTech.

The GalTech situation was… complex. There’d been a verbal agreement between them and Allura that corporations wouldn’t be brought into it. That wasn’t to say the line wasn’t skirted--there was a reason Keith and Shiro were aware enough not to use the same phone constantly--but it’d been abided by. Allura didn’t hand over Althean weapons to the Kingdom. Daniels didn’t scour communication logs for compromising information on anyone in the Kingdom.

Things were not fought fairly. Everyone could name the sins of each other--Daniels finding out an affair of a Kingdom administrator and turning that into sabotage or Allura slipping experimental weapons to the Kingdom--but it was an equilibrium. It was mutually assured destruction if anyone went too far.

It’d changed now. Keith knew, in his heart, that Daniels had used GalTech resources to help the Empire in this. The Kingdom shouldn’t have fallen so neatly. The Empire had known exactly what route the Lions were taking so that they could be ambushed. Had GalTech made the GPS system? Was it serviced by their telecommunications, or had they made the chip? Everything tied back to somewhere.

The gravity of what he’d said forced Nicole’s shoulders to a hunch. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It is,” Shiro said. His voice was calm. “They’d tracked our every move. They let us slaughter dozens of their soldiers, and then sprung a trap on us. It took only a few hours to put everything to the torch.” Keith heard the sharp swallow. “We don’t even know if Allura is alive, Ms. Moretti. They burned her house too.”

And wasn’t that crossing another line? The owners were immune. Every corporation that started its own little fiefdom started it with the understanding among each other that the legitimate people were immune. Bank tellers at an Althea bank weren’t to be shot in retribution for another hit. They could be killed in the process of a theft or mugged, but they weren’t to be touched because an Imperial soldier got mad.

This grace was extended to the owners. Someone like Nicole could be killed if she tried to fight an Imperial--but a directed assassination attempt was out of the question. Someone like Allura could walk the streets in daylight, shopping with friends, and the only sign she was a criminal mastermind was that her bodyguards were Kingdom members. Every corporation was allowed  this.

Others didn’t care for such charades .The triads and mobs and whatever else thought the corporations were silly, playing games with millions. They didn’t understand the tentative investment model that’d swept through the Western hemisphere. It was why the Morettis had guards out front and bulletproof vests for going outside. Los Angeles wasn’t as tamed as New Meridian. But for the Varley Group, Althea, and GalTech, it was all understood.

Nicole was in school for pottery. She’d lived on the Moretti dime for her entire life. She’d never wanted for anything, and she’d rarely had cause to fear for her life. Even teenage feelings of immortality lingered: she was only twenty.

Nicole looked stricken. Her eyes were wide and her skin had a greyish pallor. “Allura’s _dead_?”

“We don’t know,” Keith cut in. “Not for certain. We haven’t heard a word from her. But they set off explosives at the mansion while she was holding a party. We know there’ve been casualties. She could be in hiding until she can strike back, she could be on the other side of the country, or she could be buried under the rubble still. We’d have stayed to help but that would have ended in us dying.”

The room fell into silence. The smoothie carton rested on the island now, untouched. Keith could imagine how much the conversation had stolen her appetite. She might have admired Allura--a fellow Black woman who’d built an empire and business that spanned the world, someone who was charismatic and brilliant and just a little bit sharp around the edges who unnerved people with a glint in her eye.

Allura Althea might be dead. Keith had seen the wreckage and still found himself thunderstruck by the possibility. Nicole’s face displayed distress and vulnerability. If the situation hadn’t been so fucked up, he might have felt a bit guilty. Instead, he pressed on.

“We’re not asking for the Varley Group to march up north and fight on the streets,” he said. “We’ve still got people from the Kingdom in New Meridian. The problem is that we don’t know how many, and we need cover to organize them. If we want to preserve the agreement between benefactors, we need to destroy Daniels. He’s the biggest threat to it.”

Nicole didn’t run the Group. She was a protege--a lackadaisical one at that. Her education came between projects and papers due. Claire was a fifty-four year old woman who had decades left to her reign. While Claire was in Vanuatu, Nicole’s influence grew, of course--she could send a few dozen enforcers up north. But the Group was currently handled by her father, Marcus.

Who was in San Francisco. Keith wanted to drown himself in the pool. “He’ll be back soon?” Nicole offered. Doubt entered her voice. “... Soonish. He wanted to talk tech investments. I’m figuring there’s an expiry date on taking New Meridian back. Care to share?”

Keith leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing. Marcus might sell them out. Nicole was smart enough to realize it was in her interests to help, but Marcus was an infamous snake. If he thought there was something to gain, he’d set up the rest of the Kingdom to take the fall. It was now, suddenly, in the Kingdom’s best interests that Marcus stay in San Francisco.

The upside was that Pidge was still in the area. If they got a message to her, they could rely on Nicole to send the right amount of people up north. Nicole showed them the patio Claire had refurbished before they fell into silence. Shiro followed Keith like an overgrown puppy, forever smiling and nodding when Nicole looked at him. It was the kind of behaviour Keith hoped would continue for Arizona.

Keith was about to excuse them--there were miles left to travel--but Nicole stuffed her hands in her pockets and looked up at the sunny sky. “Mom didn’t know what to think when you left.”

Keith froze where he stood. What did he say? He hadn’t spoken to a Moretti for years until now. He hadn’t wanted to see the fallout or be talked out of leaving. “... I know she appreciated my work--”

“It was more than that,” Nicole said. She looked at him, a faint smile on her face. “You were hired, yeah, I know. But you were with us for the growing pains. It was easier with you around. No games, no lies, even if we all knew you could fuck us over at any point.”

Which was what he was doing now. Not necessarily fucking them over, but involving them in a war they didn’t fully understand. Years ago, he’d have felt paralyzed by guilt. To him now, though, it was just another job. When had he become so deadened to what he saw?

The answer was simple. Since he’d been visited by the Dead Man’s Hand in the very city they were in. The memory sent sharp pain through his temples. He didn’t want to think about it yet.

“I liked you,” he said hoarsely. His voice threatened to crack.

Nicole’s smile grew. “Same. I know that wasn’t enough, though.” Keith refused to flinch. All he could do was wonder what Shiro’s expression was like. “Mom doesn’t blame you for the shipment, y’know. Every dozen ventures have at least one loss.”

“Few of them get a Moretti arrested.”

Nicole shrugged. “The charges were dropped. Mom was pissed, but we have lawyers for a reason. I know-- _we_ know--that someone turned up from the past. It put you off your game. Ideally, Mom said we’d have set up a mobster employee assistance program and waited for things to calm. But man, did you bail _fast_.” She nodded up to where Shiro loomed. “He recruit you? Mom always thought she should have paid more.”

“He came after.” Keith didn’t know what else to say. It’d been an ugly business, and the last time he’d seen Claire Moretti, she’d been in cuffs, her face like an angry cat’s and her eyes stabbing into him. Keith had fucked up. Visibly so at that. If it’d been just a lost shipment, it wouldn't have mattered. He’d probably have stayed around the Morettis.

But the Dead Man’s Hand had turned up. They’d turned up, and one of them had got mad enough at Keith to fuck up the operation. Keith had torched the building before he left. It hadn’t destroyed all evidence of the cocaine, but it had destroyed other bits of evidence--hair, blood, fingerprints. Then he’d run for it, as was protocol. He’d known, as he ran, that he’d fucked things up irreparably. It’d been why Josiah had done it.

“You should come down,” Nicole said. “When this is over. Just to say hi to her. Mom doesn’t get attached, but she liked you, and I think it’d do you both good to wrap this up. You’ve been grey as ash since you got here, like you’re staring down a gun’s barrel. And I _know_ we’re not that bad. At least I’m not.”

Keith forced a laugh. It came out strained. “You’re not. I’ll think about it. If this goes cleanly, Allura’ll probably have a meeting or two down here.”

Nicole’s eyes brightened. “I’d love to meet her. Mom thinks she’s sharp as a knife.”

“She cuts just as well.” Keith turned his gaze away to look at the palms and bushes. Flowers decorated half the yard like they’d been spilled from the sky. They were colourful, full of pinks and whites and vivid reds. His jaded mind thought it reminded a viewer of blood, but then not everyone was as fucked up as him. Depression settled on his shoulders. With Nicole around, Shiro couldn’t even put a hand on them--

A hand landed on his shoulder. Keith went still as Shiro leaned in, smiling at Nicole. From the corner of Keith’s eye, he saw golden skin and the gleam of white teeth. “You’ll like her,” Shiro promised, “and I know she’ll like you. I don’t think she spends much time in Los Angeles. You can show her the best spots.”

Nicole rolled her eyes. “I’m twenty,” she informed him, “not twelve.” But still, she looked excited at the prospect. “We need to figure out how we’ll stay in contact. And I’m going to need some information from you two before I send anyone anywhere.”

Shiro had broken the discomfort and interrupted Keith’s memories. He probably didn’t know how appreciated it was. They wandered back into the house. It took them time to figure out contact information. They reserved one of their phones for Nicole. Email was labelled as the last resort. There were Althea web services, which Nicole said she was going to switch the family to. It was the largest declaration of allegiance they’d got.

Was it over when they left? Keith didn’t think so. The car was silent as they pulled away from the mansion. Keith braced himself for Shiro to say something, but all he did was mutter a complaint about the radio and tinker the station to bland classical. The road to Arizona was going to be awkward, Keith thought. At least, as they pulled out of Trousdale, they stopped for more food.

Keith ate another burger as Shiro ruled atop a mountain of chicken nuggets. A large root beer balanced between them. Shiro scrutinized a pair of nuggets that’d bonded in the fryer. “I think Allura _would_ like her. That was Nicole Moretti, right?”

Keith picked a pickle from his burger. So Shiro had known even less than Keith had dreaded. He took some comfort in that. “It was. Heir to the Morettis if she says yes. I knew her when she was in high school. I guess she has good memories of me driving her around.” It wasn’t like he’d taken her anywhere special: sometimes the drive through, most of the time to school or afterschool lessons. They’d get stuck in traffic for hours during the worst days, and she’d have a thousand questions about what he did, why he did it, and how he did it.

It was as they went into open highway that Shiro asked. “What happened?”

God, he didn’t want to talk about it, but since they were going to Arizona-- “I’ll tell you once.” Keith looked at Shiro from the corner of his eye. Shiro shrugged, which was as much assent as he was going to get. “I was helping the Morettis with shipments. It wasn’t anything big, but it was the third round of tests for a shipment route we’d built from San Diego. We started with simple stuff--cocaine, mostly--and we’d distribute it among the Trousdale cokeheads like fucking party favours.”

“Solid plan. What cocked it up?”

Josiah. Should he put it that bluntly? “I used to work for a biker gang in Arizona--you know that.” Shiro nodded. “They turned up in L.A. The Dead Man’s Hand has wanted to expand for a while, and it was either L.A. or San Diego. They knew I was around in L.A., so they put out a few feelers. I didn’t want anything to do with them, let alone help them build.” Keith stared out at the sunset-glazed road. “They didn’t take well to being told ‘no’. So they tipped off the cops. I guess they thought I’d learn my lesson when the shipment was gone and Claire was arrested. All it did was make me go north. New Meridian’s a bit far for the Hand.”

Silence. Then-- “And we’re going to these people to ask for help.”

Keith winced. “Unfortunately, yeah. They’ve got numbers, mobility, and connections. If I can pull some heartstrings or make the right promises, I think I can convince them to throw their lot in with the Kingdom.”

“How likely,” Shiro asked, “are either of those things to happen? They could have got you locked up for at least a decade on trafficking.”

Keith looked away. “It’s better to try than not. I know you’ve got some people like that, Shiro. We aren’t men with options. Just… So long as we’re in Arizona, be careful. The Morettis forgive, but the Hand is going to be pissed that I left.” They didn’t understand why Keith had needed to leave. They didn’t get why he’d been gutted by what he’d done.

“And why will they be pissed you left?”

Keith wanted to melt into the seat and be absorbed into nothingness. He owed it to Shiro, though, if he was going to ask the man to cover his back. “They had me do something I really don’t want to talk about. I did it, but I hated them for it, and I ended up leaving when the chance came.” The chance being enough money to run for L.A.

Shiro didn’t press. It was a nine hour drive to Clarence, Arizona. It was in the southwestern part of the state, dry as bone with a sky that went on forever and a ground the colour of a sunset. It left Keith to his thoughts, even when they switched seats.

He hadn’t been born in Clarence. His mother and father had lived in Tucson for the first few years of his life--it’d been a happy time, according to the pictures that remained, and he’d been healthy and bright when the social workers got their hands on him. His mother had died of brain cancer. His father had vanished. Between the pair of them, they’d left behind no documentation but a few pictures, a locket, and a letter written in a stilted hand apologizing to Keith for leaving.

Where had he been born? Presumably, Tucson. Where did his mother come from? The little documentation she’d had when forced into the hospital said Japan; she’d come to the States as an international student but left university two semesters in. Her student visa had expired years ago. His father was another mystery--he’d rolled in with the tumbleweeds and gone right out soon after. What they’d managed to piece together was even less illuminating than his mother’s information.

Eli Kogane was a gruff man who’d survived on hustling strangers and the occasional petty theft. His family had disowned him when he’d punched out his father--Keith’s grandfather--for having slapped Keith’s grandmother. Eli Kogane had been 34 when he went missing. Keith thought he’d returned to the road when Kaoru Morita died. Not even their shared child was enough to keep the hurt at bay.

Keith hadn’t been good enough for Eli. He’d been three when he was abandoned at a church. Social workers found that most of the Koganes were abroad for military work, dead, or disinterested in the child of a violent son. The Moritas were a poor family, with Kaoru their only child. Both were sickly, didn’t speak English, and didn’t have the means to care for him.

Keith hoped it broke their hearts to let him go into the foster care system. They’d have been the only ones in his life that still might have cared. He’d tried to contact them since, but got nothing. Either they were dead, or something had happened. The time to go check had never presented itself. He’d been trying to contact them for five years straight. It didn’t help that he didn’t speak a word of Japanese. And even if he could, what would he tell his grandparents?

‘Hi, I’m your long-lost grandson who works in organized crime. I’ve killed more people than you probably have known in your entire life. I smoke, I have tattoos, and I never finished high school.’

That’d go down like a brick through a window. Shiro was closer to his own family, and it was a struggle to manage. Keith drove down dusty roads, his eyes glued to the horizon. Memories of incidents with Shiro’s family dogged him. Arguments on the phone, unexpected visits that’d threatened operations, even just explaining how Shiro afforded the things he could--none of it was easy.

Maybe, in a way, Keith was lucky to have no one. Maybe he’d been lucky to be picked up by a family of fundies and taught dinosaurs roamed the Earth alongside man. At least until Keith got involved with the Hand.

“They know you as Kogane?” Shiro asked. A pile of snacks waited in his lap. He was picky--he only ate certain colours of M&Ms, disdained chips that were browned, and only drank half a bottle of iced tea before he declared it ruined by ‘dregs’. Shiro was a spoiled man, Keith mused. It came with the territory, though. Shiro spoke with a flat Midwest accent, the product of some finishing school or another. No one born in New York City came out talking quite like Shiro.

Keith shrugged. “That and some racist shit. I beat it out of them when I was still around, but it’ll have crawled back in.” Especially now that they had a grudge. “They’re hicks. Keep that in mind. No references that anyone outside of reality TV would understand.”

Shiro snorted. “A lot of respect for them, hm?”

“No more than they deserve.” A film of dust covered the SUV’s windshield. Keith wanted to scrape it clean, but injecting windshield wiper fluid would just turn it into mud. “They’re assholes. Not us kind of assholes. There aren’t agreements with them. If they don’t like you, they’ll break your teeth. Appealing to reason won’t work.”

“So the opposite of Nicole.”

Keith breathed out a reluctant sigh. “... Absolute opposite, yeah. The Morettis think of themselves as sophisticated and suave. The Hand doesn’t give a fuck. Don’t drink any cocktails, keep your hands to yourself unless you’re throwing a punch, and don’t look the redhead with an anchor on his neck in the eyes.”

The road had thousands of cracks. It’d baked for years under a southern Californian sun. Keith didn’t think an egg could fry on it, but that came with the corollary of ‘yet’. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids. What was he bringing Shiro into? He couldn’t say shit like ‘Mark’s rumoured to have murdered his ex-wife’ or ‘Henry was dying of cirrhosis of the liver last I saw him’. It’d prepare Shiro little by little for the weird and awful world they were entering, but it’d open up whole new questions.

Like why a fifteen year old Asian kid had been taught how to hustle pool by a white hick biker who’d smashed a stranger’s jaw like glass over who was supposed to buy the next round. By every power invested in the foster system and social workers, what the _hell_ had he been doing there? Keith had wondered that in passing at the time, and he still wondered it now.

Birds circled in the sky. The air-conditioning in the SUV made his skin itch. He reached over to roll down his window. Its blackish tint had relieved his eyes of the sun, but he wanted it now. It made him think of long hours whiled away through hikes and fence building and the occasional hunt for cool lizards. That’d eventually evolved into going to the edge of the desolate ‘ranch’ his foster family owned and waiting for one of the Hand to pick him up.

He’d been a mascot, he guessed. Tough as nails, scrappy, with a mouth that fit more on a biker than a kid who went to church every Sunday in his very best. When he’d got older, it’d become less about teaching or teasing, and far more _real_. But by then, he’d hated everything in Clarence. What did it mean to a sixteen year old to deliver ‘what if’ threats to businesses that weren’t paying protection money? It meant nothing. It was serious, but it was still a game. It was a game until--

He recoiled at the memory. Not yet. Not until it was necessary. It wasn’t fair to not warn Shiro, but Keith himself had talked about not being ashamed of the past. It’d happened, it was over, and it wasn’t like either of them could change it.

When they stopped at another gas station, it was a dead one. A single man operated it, but he stayed inside where a wheezing A/C unit attempted to keep it livable. Dust blew in a strong summer wind, keeping aloft vultures that waited for roadkill. A lone dog huddled in the shade. A black collar looped around its neck, from which a chain linked it to the concrete bunker of a station.

Shiro insisted on walking around in the beating sun. “It’s good to stretch your legs,” Keith was told. “Do you know how bad it is to sit around all day?”

“Vaguely,” Keith said. He endured a few minutes of the walk before he slipped into the gas station. Most of the food was only a month or two away from expiring. A basket of cheap bananas near the cash register were coated in thick brown spots.

Keith grabbed a couple twinkies, a large bottle of Coke, and two bags of nuts. Almonds were best--Shiro loved them best--but Keith also loved cashews. It was strange, he thought as the man rung up the gas and snacks, that Keith knew that Shiro preferred unsalted roasted almonds, Snickers, and Coke to any other snack, yet he had no idea if Shiro had siblings. Had he gone to college? What had he been like as a kid?

Keith knew what Shiro’s cock looked like when blue balls got bad. He knew Shiro had a soft spot for bulldogs and baseball was his favourite sport. But who the fuck was Shiro? Takashi Shirogane didn’t talk about where he’d come from or who he knew. The most Keith had were the arguments on the phone, glimpses of family who tried to visit, and the impression that Shiro came from money.

For all he knew, that impression was wrong. But Keith had never asked. Asking opened himself up for questions too. Tit for tat, fair was far, and Keith knew better than to open that Pandora’s box of history. He bought a can of beer to go with the snacks. If things got worse, he’d probably appreciate it.

He came out to Shiro petting the wiry-furred dog. “His name is Ranger,” Shiro told him. “I think he’s a deerhound.”

Keith squinted at Ranger, who panted and wheezed but wagged his tail with furious abandon. Said tail could have kneecapped someone if they got too close. “Cute. You want to take him with us?”

Shiro laughed as he ruffled Ranger’s floppy ears. The old man dog’s fur was a salt-stained grey. “He’d fit in the SUV,” Shiro said, “but can you imagine him getting sick?”

“Y’know,” Keith replied, “we could always _buy_ a dog.”

“In our apartments?” Shiro sounded appalled. “A dog needs to run, Keith, unless they’re one of those yappy things. And why get one of those when you can get a dog like Ranger?”

Keith knew the rhythms of the discussion. Shiro preferred big dogs, ones where if you were bitten, it left a mark. Ones whose bark sounded like a foghorn going off. Big, sometimes mean, not the brightest, but lovable and defensive. Gross drool? Dog being able to reach the table? Even the demand for hours of exercise? None of that meant anything to Shiro. He loved dogs. The only thing he loved more were cats.

In an ideal world, they’d got to a shelter and pick up a chubby tabby who Shiro would inevitably dote on. In reality, a cat wasn’t manageable. They were gone for long stretches of time. They came back injured. Their apartment had a big bullseye on it.

Shiro stole the beer when they hit the road again. Keith chose to be magnanimous and let it slide. Instead, he stole a handful of almonds. Every time they passed a rusted, collapsing sign, he popped one into his mouth. The handful was gone in a couple minutes.

Rot found it hard to blossom in the desert-like land. What happened more often was that storms of sand and wind stripped paint clean off, or ripped at wood. Former houses had been abandoned, left as skeletons of desiccated beams and shattered, dusty windows. Postal boxes by the road in ghost towns had lost their wooden stands. All that remained were battered metal boxes that ended up everywhere, even on the road. The SUV pancaked one. Keith swore when he hit it, but it didn’t puncture the tire.

Arizona was a land of large stretches of _nothing_. Rock, dirt, and asphalt. Parts of the state had forests--but where they drove most, at most there were copses of trees on withered grass, littered there like crumbs. The sun hammered down at the ground, sucking dry what little water fed the land. Between the high mountains, little glimpses of life clung to the earth; trees grew, animals lived, rain sometimes fell, but at the end, down the slopes, the world became nothing but a barren landscape.

There was a reason NASA had used Arizona to practice for the moon landing. The only thing Arizona had that the moon didn’t were lizards, and those lizards had kept Keith sane. Maybe, he mused, if not for the Hand, he’d have become a… reptilogist? Lizardologist? He couldn’t remember the name for it, and he tried not to feel frustrated. His education was stunted, he knew that. That didn’t make him stupid.

Frustration welled. He took it out on the gas pedal. There weren’t many cops to fear. Most stuck to towns and the busiest highways. The route Keith took them down didn’t have much of anything. Most towns were empty, the population having moved to the cities as corporations grew. It was better to be in the city--Tucson, Phoenix, Mesa--than it was to eke out a living in the middle of nowhere.

The road stretched for miles with nothing but shacks and lonely winds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is the 9th!


	5. Chapter 5

Clarence hid in the south-eastern part of Arizona, right up against New Mexico. Miles of shrubs and yellow grass covered the healthier parts, while the rest fell to stone and sand. Mountains rose here and there, craggy and dark, large enough that it was impossible to see their full size in a single window of the SUV.

No major highway led to it from California. The best were Route 70 from North Carolina and the southern part of US 191 from Wyoming. Ghost towns filled the county, and Clarence itself was poor, white, and shrinking. On the other hand, it had a noticeable presence from Latinos--Keith had learned Spanish, much to Josiah’s disapproval--and there was always talk of revitalizing the town in the state legislature. But nothing much came of it. In a decade or two, Clarence would be the husks they drove past.

Keith didn’t think much of anything would be lost. Oh, he knew some people loved Clarence. They’d grown up there, the furthest they’d ever been from its desiccated soil was Tucson, and their family had been there for generations. The only people who’d been there longer were the Apache. But the difference, to Keith’s mind, was that the white holdouts of Clarence were usually the ones who’d tossed slurs his way or told him he should be grateful that his foster family was raising him white.

They hadn’t even meant him bad most of the time. That made it all hard to swallow, especially when teachers or his foster parents reminded him. Sally Sue hadn’t meant to call him _that_. She just didn’t know any better. It was his job to be better than angry--better than hurt. In Clarence, only one blood mattered and that was white blood. Going to L.A. and New Meridian had been like someone had unchained him. If someone spat a slur, there were a dozen fists heading for their face.

Maybe that was part of why he’d liked the Hand. Nobody in Clarence willfully fucked with the Hand, and Keith had become known for being one of them. By the time he was seventeen, the slurs had stopped. He’d only had to break two people’s jaws at school before the message got through. The last slur had been a snarled _fag_ along with _queer_. That’d been more dangerous than anything else. If the Hand ever suspected, they’d put Keith in the ground along with whoever they thought he was fooling around with.

And here Keith was, driving into Clarence alongside the man he’d been fucking for years. It could not have been a worse idea to go to the Hand, but spoiled for choice they were not. At least the Morettis were willing to help. _A_ Moretti. He wished Shiro hadn’t drank his beer.

Clarence had ten thousand people. Most lived around a single long thoroughfare in the downtown. Most of the stores were mom and pop shops, except for a single Walmart that’d taken up residence and tried to put everyone else out of business. It hadn’t worked. Clarence had fierce loyalty to each other. Walmart had killed a few of the smallest businesses, but never enough to make a dent in the Hand’s protection racket. Which was good, because Keith didn’t know how they’d have blackmailed or threatened Walmart without walking away with shattered teeth.

The town thinned out the further from the downtown you went. Clarence was like a blob of dribbled paint: a dollop in the centre, and trails around it in a spiral. Keith had lived a ten minute drive out of town, which may as well have been ten thousand miles. The world changed in wild ways when rural.

The SUV slunk through the angular streets. It didn’t have Boston’s tangled skein or New Meridian’s elegance. Clarence’s roads were like train tracks. Shiro had wrapped all their snacks in a plastic bag and knotted the top. He tossed it into the backseat as he leaned forward, eyes wide, and began to take in Clarence.

“This is where you grew up?” he finally asked, appalled. “And it had a biker gang?”

“Clarence is good for moving things up from Mexico,” Keith said with a shrug. “Which come from all over Latin America. Then you‘ve got an isolated population stuck near all sorts of roads. The Dead Man’s Hand started with Josiah Starkweather. He’s lived here for decades, and he’s made his little empire. It’s shit compared to everywhere else, but it’s something, and he’s got a lot of bikers across Arizona who’ll come at his call.”

“And we’re hoping to get a few of them to come north.”

“Very, very far north,” Keith agreed. He swallowed, but there was little spit in his mouth. “Look, just remember they’re not… they’re not what I’d call _forward_ thinking. If they think we’re fucking, they’ll put a fist down our throats. And if they get off colour about the Asian thing when I’m not around, tell me.” Shiro wasn’t quite used to having that batter him--not like Keith was. Shiro had grown up in metropolises.

Shiro snorted. “I’ll deal with it.” Keith shook his head. Shiro reached out to card two of his fingers through Keith’s hair. “I’m not saying I’ll blow negotiations, baby. I’m just saying that you’re not the only one who’s faced things like that--”

The side of the bank had been graffitied. Keith almost stomped on the brakes. They cruised past the bus-sized mural. There were two black aces and two black eights, and a skull above it all, through which angelic trumpets blew rising notes on to a scene of devils frolicking on a mesa. They’d got even more blatant than he remembered.

Shiro leaned over. “Holy shit. What the hell is that?”

“A territory marking,” Keith guessed. “Or a show of strength.” Blood drained from his face. “... They’re different now. If it hasn’t been removed yet and it’s on a bank, it means the Hand _owns_ the bank. Or government and the police.”

“Both’s an option too.” Shiro flopped back. “How angry was this Josiah when you left? Or when you last saw him? Not just about the Morettis.”

Keith grimaced. “... It wasn’t great. I left after doing a final job. Didn’t give much warning--didn’t think they owned me, but they disagreed. We weren’t friends or family, but Josiah had a habit of believing in spilled blood ties. When I killed for them, that sealed something I never agreed too.”

Shiro contemplated him through dark eyes. “Did you agree when you were young?”

Too close, too pointed. “I hadn’t killed then.”

“... Fair.”

The Dead Man’s Hand had always liked the Devil’s Bone as its watering hole. It was, on paper, the property of a solitary old man named Benjamin who lived on the second floor and doled out drinks with a haggard glare. But in truth, Benjamin was a front for the Hand. Josiah had given him the money to buy the place. In return, the Hand drank for free every Sunday and Benjamin hid any marked Hand bikers on the second floor. If a cop wanted to talk to you, you didn’t jump the border immediately. You went upstairs and drank until Josiah called the cops to work things out.

All it usually took was a clear threat of dead kids or a mysterious accident at their house, and reports got shelved. Josiah had owned Clarence for three decades, and in that time, he’d never been issued a warrant or gone to court. To any FBI agent looking in, Josiah was a sour man who kept to himself and had invested his pappy’s dollars from a mining injury into legitimate businesses: convenience stores, grocery stores, theatres, even a little used car lot.

They wouldn’t know that he’d got a shipping company after setting up the prior owner for fraud. They wouldn’t know he used his trucks to haul merchandise up to Wyoming on the 191 and from there, to the rest of the US’s mountain states. Keith’s favourite enterprise had been the used car lot helping launder stolen vehicles. People would steal them in New Mexico or from Tucson and drive up for Josiah’s clean money. The cars were rarely sold: instead, they were hauled into a Hand-run car shop and broken down for parts.

Keith had helped with that, sometimes. He liked doing things with his hands. It was comforting to pick apart something so finely constructed, or was on its last legs. When Josiah had declared him worthy of hiring, Keith’s paycheck had been attached to the shop. On days where things were too ugly or too deep into the Hand’s fabric, one of the Hand would drop him off like it was a school trip.

_Have fun, son, and try not to talk to any of the people who come in. They’re armed._

The Hacketts, his foster family, had never approved. But by the time he was sixteen, they were too afraid to tell him no--too afraid of what Josiah might do. Keith knew, on all levels, that he had been and was currently fucked up. He hadn’t meant to terrorize them. The goal had never been to be their greatest mistake. They’d _meant_ well, even when they cocked everything up.

Where to go now, though? The Devil’s Bone would be packed with people, many of which would be drunk. He didn’t know Josiah’s number, nor if he’d have picked up anyway. Keith didn’t want to give Josiah time to prepare for an execution, just as he didn’t want to startle Josiah into something rash. The answer proved simple: find neutral territory, go there, call up Josiah, and wait for the Hand to arrive.

One problem was how many of the Hand would turn up. The location needed to be public. Josiah owned the town, but shooting random strangers in front of a restaurant would be difficult to brush away. He hoped, at least. It was better than going to the car lot or the bar. Those were owned by Josiah not just in title but in metaphysical ways. Nothing happened near them without Josiah taking notice.

Keith navigated them around the downtown until he found the right spot. It was a cafe, one for retirees, and it had a single black cat as its sign. The Black Cat was a nod to the Bohemians of Paris, but suitably Americanized for its clientele. Everything looked like it’d come from a home kitchen. The drinks were plain; the most avant-garde they got was a single offering of a frappuccino that they only served in summer.

There were tables around the front, on a patio that’d been built into the sidewalk. It forced anyone passing to step into the street, muttering soft curses as they hurried by. Keith had visited the Black Cat several times. Not all of them were casual visits. If the owners recognized him, Keith didn’t doubt they’d be swiftly removed from the establishment.

But it’d been years. He liked to think he looked different than when he’d been seventeen, almost eighteen. Less weedy, less gangly, far stronger and far sharper in countenance. He wore a suit, drove a costly car, and worked for an organization far different than the Hand. Keith took one of the tables by the edge of the patio. The rickety wrought iron had had its finish sandblasted away. A strong Arizona sun seemed determined to melt everything in sight, and he hissed as hot iron pressed against him as he sat. Shiro looked just as uncomfortable.

“They have something cold, right?” Shiro asked. There were no menus to peruse. He pulled out a phone and slid it over the glass table. “Not just coffee?” Shiro reached up to tug at his collar. His neat tie went askew, but some of the still, dead air brushed against his skin.

It wouldn’t be enough. People thought Phoenix was bad, but it got a whole lot worse. “They should still have lemonade or soda.” He didn’t know Josiah’s number, but he _did_ know the Devil’s Bone’s one. If he asked for Josiah, though, would he just get laughed at? He’d have to reveal who he was. He didn’t think that’d end well.

The waitress came out. She was young and fresh, with a brilliant smile and obliviousness to who her guests were. She didn’t even blink at Shiro’s monstrous order, even when all Keith ordered was a single lemonade. All the while, Keith stared at the phone.

928-311-8856. A simple number, wonderfully memorable for the repetition, and utterly impossible to comprehend. Dozens of armed bikers congregated in the Devil’s Bone. The sun was setting by inches, the days forever long in Clarence. Keith looked down a street to see the dwindling youth of Clarence laughing and shopping. They’d return home by the time the sun was behind the horizon.

Nobody wanted to be out late. It wasn’t just the Hand they feared. Arizona had its own ghosts and stories, no matter Keith’s opinion on the truth. He picked up the phone and dialled. Hopefully distance would make it hard for GalTech to track them. It’d be just another call among millions, far off in the middle of nowhere, pre-paid in cash, assigned to a fake name. They’d dump it just in case, but it was more of a precaution so far out.

It rang twice before Benjamin answered. His smoker-weathered voice ground over the line. “What is it?” he asked. It was mostly the damage to his voice that made it sound impolite.

Keith swallowed. “Marlboro's done a number on your throat, Benny.”

“... Who the fuck is this?”

Heat flushed up his neck, prickling skin. “Keith Kogane. I’m back in town.”

Benjamin kept the phone in the back; it muffled the shouts and cheers, and Keith could tell when Benjamin’s hitched. “You’ve got _balls_ , kid.” Benjamin sounded exhausted. “You want Josiah to put a bullet ‘tween your eyes? I thought the business with the Morettis would be the end of you.”

 _I lived, bitch._ “I’m not going to prison because Josiah’s a control freak. He’ll have to try harder if he wants me there. On that note--he around?”

“If you’re going to talk to him like that, he ain’t.”

Keith laughed softly. “I’ll play nice. Not a word of what happened. I just want to ask him something.”

He felt Benjamin’s frown on the other side. “Fine. But you aren’t allowed in the bar until Josiah says so, you hear? Last thing I want is another shootout this year.”

‘Another’? Keith frowned, his eyes narrowing at a sign over Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro, whose food had arrived and who was once again feeding like a ravenous wolf. “There won’t be nothing like that, Benny. It’s just some friendly catch-up.”

“Sure,” Benjamin said with a snort. The call turned muffled as Benjamin leaned out from the room and shouted. _Josiah, the prodigal son’s back in town!_ Keith pretended not to hear the sudden deadly silence. There were murmurs and mutters and then the line cleared.

“I should send someone to shoot you,” Josiah finally said. “You run, and now you’re back after your Kingdom falls?”

It wasn’t confirmed. It wasn’t confirmed, and Josiah was trying to strike at him, get him nice and angry. It wouldn’t work. “No time like the present for a visit, sir,” Keith said. Shiro looked up from his BLT, both eyebrows raised. Keith shrugged in response. “She’s not dead and you know it. Daniels would be crowing from the rooftops if she was. But I’m here for a little talk.”

“For what?” Josiah asked darkly. “You’re going to beg for my help? Ask me to kill Daniels for you? Boy, we’re past anything like that. I cleaned up your messes when you were a child, and I’m not doing more. You’re a grown man. You made a choice, and now you live with it.”

“I have information,” Keith replied, “that might fuck up your little route from Mexico to Wyoming. Daniels plans big. You know that. Why would he look away from you for long?”

“Because I’m a weed in his garden, not the fucking neighbour trying to torch it.” Josiah had a slight slur to his words, which meant he’d drunk three times as much as he should. The man loved his alcohol. How his liver was still alive, Keith didn’t know. He was sixty-five and living on borrowed time. “Your little princess would do more harm than I ever could, Keith, and I’m not going to bleed myself dry to resurrect your pet project. You fucked up. If you’re smart, you’ll go east and never look back.”

The phone line went dead. Keith frowned down at his lemonade before he took a sip. Shiro mirrored his frown and nudged over a plate of cookies. “Didn’t go well?”

Keith took an oatmeal raisin. He didn’t so much eat it as begin to crumble it, picking out the raisins. “... It could have gone better. He wasn’t happy to see me. Can’t say I am to talk to him, but it’d be hard for it to have gone worse.” He dropped the mutilated cookie on the plate and reached up to rub at his eyes. There weren’t tears: it was stress from Josiah and Clarence, and strain from hours of driving. “I need something to offer him--to lure him in. I don’t suppose you know the trade routes of the Coyotes or Ravenous.”

“No,” Shiro said. He eyed his sandwich, as though it’d offended him. “Do you know where Josiah lives?”

“Absolutely not--”

Shiro spread his arms in a shrug. “We’re not spoiled for choice, Keith. And if he’s at home, that means we can corner him.”

It was a terrible idea. It could get them killed. It could spark a war between the Hand and the Kingdom when it was around again. Kingdom shipments through Arizona’s southeast would be hit constantly, not that they _had_ shipments through Hand territory.

More importantly, though, Josiah’s little mini-mansion was guarded. It had an alarm system. Josiah was always armed--not with personal peashooters, but with heavy artillery. When Keith had still been around, he’d kept an eye on the installation of bulletproof glass in the front windows. But… Keith knew the place. He’d been around it for years. He’d eaten at Josiah’s table hundreds of times. Josiah had been like an almost-father. A facsimile that failed on closer inspection but went through the motions expertly.

If it was really needed, he could figure out how to get in. He just needed Shiro to understand the risk. So he spoke carefully. “Josiah doesn’t let people live.”

Shiro raised a brow. “That’s not uncommon.”

“It’s more than that.” His voice edged with heat, but not heat towards Shiro--towards the past. “If Josiah thinks someone _might_ become an enemy, he has them executed. Hung, buried alive, ravaged by his dogs--he’s a Vlad for the modern era. He didn’t let me go, though I’m sure he told the rest of the Hand that. I ran away. If I hadn’t joined the Morettis, he’d have come for me faster.”

“And even then,” Shiro finished, “he still tried to fuck you over years later. So you’re saying he’s vicious and he’s got a grudge.”

Again, it made Josiah sound like every other thug they’d met. Shiro was used to thugs and morons. Meatheads in the underworld were more common than starlings along a highway power line.  Josiah was violent, sure, but he wasn’t notable to Shiro. Keith wondered if Shiro saw Josiah as Keith’s personal boogeyman: large in childhood, but far less when confronted as an adult.

Keith rolled up his sleeve. Shiro watched, head tilted to the side. He knew Keith’s skin like a worn map. Its colour, its spots, its sweeping lines that built a figure that tasted sweet. But he had to know the creases and scars too. All along Keith’s left arm were burn marks. Angry red welled on his skin, forever frozen in rage, never escaping that single moment where things had gone wrong.

Shiro’s eyes were cold. “He did it?”

“He helped.” Still, he couldn't admit it. Three words, and Shiro would truly understand why he’d left. But after his lecture to Shiro and listing his rules, what kind of hypocrite would he be? Would Shiro’s opinion on him change? The thoughts unsettled him. His skin crawled under the wave of uncertainty that twisted inside him. “He’s not like the other thugs you’ve met. He doesn’t know the word ‘stop’ and he doesn’t care about the word ‘kindness’. A gun will kill him just the same, but he’s not going to be easy to negotiate with. If nothing else, he’s going to take shots at us before I can get him to listen, and he sure as fuck won’t be apologizing if he hits either of us.”

Shiro took a long drink of his own lemonade. When he put the glass down, his face was cold. “If he raises a gun at you, I’m going to rip his intestines out. He did this to you as a kid?”

Young enough to be a crime, old enough for Keith to have known better. How did he tell Shiro that, though? “It wasn’t all him,” he said as a compromise. “But a lot of it was.” He pushed his sleeve back up and picked up his sweating glass. It slicked his palm, the only cool part of him in the Arizonan summer. “We’ll do this. It’ll take work and we’ll probably get shot at, but we can try. I just want you to be ready.”

“I am,” Shiro promised as he reached out to press his thumb against Keith’s lip. A bead off sweat trickled down Keith’s cheek. Shiro swiped it away. “Let’s get out of the heat.” He pulled back, leaving Keith’s skin aflame.

Keith took a long drink of his lemonade. It didn’t help the thirst. Keith went inside to pay the bill as Shiro went to the SUV and turned on the A/C. It’d be oppressively hot inside the car, and it’d take a half hour before it really faded. Keith walked into the Black Cat Cafe, his head down.

Someone still recognized him. “Keith Hackett?” one of the baristas asked. She was short woman with sandy skin. He recognized her by the bites piercings. Melanie Lopez had been in the same detentions as him. She’d tried in school, but it’d never been enough for the teachers: she’d punched out a strawberry blonde girl once and her reputation had never recovered. It was a bit depressing to see her working as a barista. They’d spoken a few times. Melanie had always wanted out. Now, she looked over him with a low whistle. “You got somewhere good, didn’t you?”

There was no jealousy or bitterness. Maybe she knew what’d happened--but if she had, she wouldn’t have called him ‘Hackett’. Keith lifted his head. “Lopez,” he said. What did he say now? If he said where he’d gone, it’d open the conversation on why he’d come back, or what Melanie had been doing. He didn’t want to do that. He just wanted to pay and get out. He swallowed, hiding the movement by glancing at one of the walls. The cheap prints were yellowed and curling around the edges. “I did.” Hesitation, then-- “I didn’t think you’d stick around.”

Melanie shrugged as he pulled out his wallet. “It takes money to move.”

She was in her late twenties. If she wanted out, the window was passing. A blink and she’d be thirty-five, stuck in a nowhere town, surrounded by crime. She’d wanted to be a tattoo artist. It wasn’t going to happen in Clarence--not unless she agreed to work for the Hand in one of their shops. She’d be inking bikers for their kills and feats.

She was curious about him. She didn’t bother hiding it. As she rang him up, she bombarded him with questions. Who was the man he’d been eating with? Was Keith moving back to Clarence? What had he been doing to get a suit like _that_?

He didn’t give answers. It left her to a salacious conclusion: the other man was paying for Keith’s largesse, possibly in return for sex. Because she knew, just like Josiah had, that if it weren’t for someone else, he’d still be Keith Hackett, living in Clarence, uneducated, pathetic, and poor. She didn’t know that he helped kill people for a living. She never would.

He tipped her obscenely. She barely restrained a gasp. He didn’t look back as he left, though his skin threatened to rise off his bones. _Things_ crawled underneath. Melanie called out to him as he left.

“Come back around soon!”

He had zero intention of staying in Clarence for more than 24 hours. Shiro had taken shotgun. He’d bundled his food together in napkins and had even refilled his McDonald’s cup with both their lemonades. “Waste not,” Shiro told him when he asked, “and want not. You want a sip?”

Keith took one. The sugar helped his mood a bit. They weren’t going to be able to sleep until they were in Albuquerque. All the hotels nearby were owned by the Hand, and sleeping in a parking lot would be making a hit easy. Even the roads around Clarence were dangerous. All it took was a single biker recognizing Keith and deciding they’d cozy up to Josiah by killing the traitor.

They drove around town. The sun was almost set, but it wasn’t ready yet. If they were going to break into the compound and confront Josiah, they’d need it to be pitch black and the bikers almost black-out drunk. Unfortunately, it gave Shiro time to get curious.

“Where’d you live here?” was the first question.

Keith kept his eyes glued to the road. “Outside of town.”

Shiro munched on a cookie. “... With who?”

“The Hacketts,” he said shortly. “They’re not here anymore. It’d take us out of town to visit, and I don’t want to waste time.”

Shiro sucked his teeth. “Well then. I’m not your personal inquisition, Keith. Just a bit curious who’d let a kid fuck around with bikers.”

Oh, it hadn’t been willing. In the Hacketts’ defense, they’d tried their damn best to get a hold on Keith. Whether it was with a smack or a Bible verse or even dragging him to Church to get a bit of the Lord in him, they’d tried. They’d just never succeeded. The Devil lived in that child, Charity Hackett had said. And nothing less than Jesus’ blood would get the bastard out.

To which Keith said: bad news for her because the Devil had stayed. Jesus didn’t have a paycheck to offer.

Shiro waited for an answer, as though Keith would vomit out his life story while Shiro was covered in the crumbs of stale cookies, a McDonald’s cup in hand, only a change of clothes away from looking like he’d tumbled out of a university dorm. Shiro’s coping mechanisms left a lot to be desired.

Keith shrugged. “I met them when I was fourteen,” he said. Three sentences. That was all Shiro would get. Anything more would have to be clawed out of him. “I punched out a biker’s kid. They were going to break my arm, but I won.”

“You were _fourteen_. How did you win? Last I checked, there were standards to being a biker.”

Keith shrugged again. “It was more about creativity than strength.” That was one more sentence than he’d sworn to give. In its place, he began to share distractions. He pointed out buildings and gave little histories. Some were faintly remembered. None included him--just the Hand. The libraries had been the site of a massacre back in the ‘70s. Someone had fucked someone else’s wife, and the cuckold had gone wild. Josiah hadn’t approved. From what Keith knew, the entire mess had been cleaned up by killing everyone involved and dumping them in a ravine.

“Simple solution,” Shiro mused. “Yet extremely messy. How did he cover that up?”

Keith looked at the rosy sky. “He paid a lot of people off, and the coyotes did the rest.”

“I guess there _are_ a lot of those two things around. At least the money for Josiah.” It sounded wrong to hear Shiro say Josiah’s name. Considering how long Keith had focused on making Clarence the past, hearing his present speak about it sent his mind in a spin. “Who was it that you were talking to in the cafe?”

He could have throttled Shiro, Melanie, or--frankly--himself. He shouldn’t have acknowledged Lopez. “Someone I knew in school.” No detail, no hooks for Shiro to jump on, and no investment. “You should sleep while I drive. I’ll let you know when the time’s right.”

Shiro instead offered his cup with the dregs of lemonade. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m going to stay up with you. You have a choice of I Spy or Bloody Knuckles.”

It was stupid. He should have said no. “Bloody Knuckles,” Keith said. “It’ll be too dark to see anything outside the car--though I guess your mess could be interesting.”

It took two whacks to send Shiro yelping. Both of them were fast, but Keith was speed and Shiro was strength. Keith hadn’t meant to hit hard, but that didn’t really matter in the end. Shiro gave him puppy eyes. Keith refused to acknowledge it beyond offering him a coat when the car got too cold. Shiro had leaned over and kissed him on the forehead in response.

It was too soft. It reminded him more of a sappy movie than waiting for murder. Shiro’s body curled up against his seat. He was too large to fit in a sedan comfortably, which had been part of the reason to get a SUV. His burly chest rose and fell, soft sighs falling from his lips like rain drops. Keith contemplated punching himself in the face for sitting there and admiring Shiro. It was pathetic--he was better than this, and he was in a place where having those thoughts could get him killed.

He focused on the road ahead and kept driving. He criss-crossed over hills and through small valleys. He didn’t drive them near where he’d once lived, but circled the town. If he’d stayed inside, someone would have eventually said something to the cops or the Hand. His mind tracked the roads he took; it recognized many of them. There were rocks that’d been there since his childhood, and potholes that’d never been fixed.

Keith rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. The dry heat had calmed from scorching to merely suffocating. Wind whistled past, accentuated by the slow rumble of the SUV. Shiro muttered something in his sleep. Keith didn’t catch it--didn’t care to. The ashes sprinkled from the cigarette’s end like flaking paint on one of the abandoned buildings that lined the roads.

The sun was gone. In its place was an endless dark of speckled white stars, and a gibbous moon whose surface looked jagged as shattered glass. Its light illuminated the desolate wasteland in a pale imitation of the sun. Keith leaned back in his seat and took a long drag. The taste of smoke and bitterness filled his mouth. He exhaled, and a stream of blue dragon-smoke curled from his lips. The wind stole it away, hiding it in the recesses of the ground and feeding the rest to the stars.

“You’re stressed,” Shiro said.

Keith grimaced at his cigarette and flicked it out the window. The ashes smoldered in a orange light that died when the wind hit it. The butt would disintegrate by the end of the day. “Says the man,” Keith replied, “that’s been eating constantly. We’ve all got our vices.” And his would end in Albuquerque.

“It’s one of Althea’s products?”

 _Or is it the type that’ll kill you?_ “It’s a Long Haul.” Built for truckers and packed with caffeine. For the medicinal certification, Althea had needed to make it taste like shit, bitter and smoky. It’d taken years of work to make the rush tolerable, Allura had complained, and then the FDA had decided to fuck her over. So it goes, but she’d taken out the FDA’s head the very next year. Rocked by scandal, the man had fled into retreat. In a few years, when reapproval opportunities came, Althea would serve up a licorice caffeine cigarette.

It still wouldn’t be good for you, but it was highly likely that it _didn’t_ cause cancer. Probably.

Neither Keith’s nor the FDA’s approval settled Shiro. The man’s brows furrowed, and a frown hung at his lips. “You know they give heart problems in the long-term, Keith--”

Keith rubbed the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t anger, but a keen frustration. “I know you mean well, but I’m really not up for this. If you want the pack, you can have it and toss them. I just want to gather my thoughts.”

What was there to gather? Everything was all over the place. He had his name, a horrible past, and a lover who knew about twenty percent of his life. If it’d been any other time, he’d have gone down on Shiro and hoped the man fucked his brains out until he forgot what the problem was. But Shiro was tense, the risk was too high, and Keith found himself decidedly soft at even the most lurid daydreams.

It was 10:30. The Hand would be, at most, half-drunk. The beer hour would be ending, and rum would come next. After rum came whiskey and tequila. Anyone who wasn’t blasted by then got to be drowned in vodka--vodka that tasted like paint thinner. Keith had tried it once. He’d been sixteen. It hadn’t been a pleasant morning after.

He threw a quiet wish to the moon that his arrival had driven the Devil’s Bone into a frenzy of liquor. He couldn’t be the only one with regrets, but who the hell knew for sure? The SUV flew over the greyed asphalt, as though it were on a conveyor belt rushing them back to Clarence. He wished that belt was broken.

Josiah lived on the eastern side of Clarence. To anyone from L.A. or Chicago, his house would be upper middle class. Nothing McMansion, nothing big, nothing worth anything, really. But to the people of Clarence, it was a palace. Stucco, clay, and stone built a house decorated in gardens tended to by hired help from the town. Whitewashed walls encircled the house, enclosing it with only one entrance. Cobblestones created a path that snaked through the gardens and led to a front door framed by ivy.

The water costs were Mad Maxian. Josiah spent almost as much on alcohol as he did on water. There was even a fountain in the front to match the pool at the back. How any of it survived this part of Arizona, he didn’t know. But he’d seen the bills a few times. Josiah had told him to shut his mouth and pay them on Josiah’s behalf.

The back of the house had a trio of Hand enforcers loafing around, half drunk. They were there to make sure no one set up a ladder and little else. The front, though, had a half dozen guards. They wouldn’t be stone-cold sober, but they’d be a functional shot. If Shiro and Keith wanted in, the sides were their best bet. They’d have thirty seconds, roughly, to vault over the stucco walls between patrols. The walls which were, Keith told Shiro grimly, about ten feet each.

“At least they’re bumpy,” Shiro said. Keith had turned to stare at him. “Built in footholds, Keith. I can boost you over and I can climb on my own.”

How strong was stucco? It’d never occurred to him to seriously wonder. Driving a car into it would break it, sure, but what about a two hundred plus pound man built of raw muscle? They’d just have to hope it held as Shiro hauled himself over. “I’m going to trust you in that,” Keith said. “But if you fuck it up, I’m going to laugh at you, even if we get shot.”

“Fair.” Keith felt the muscle flex in Shiro’s voice. He tried not to roll his eyes as he brought them to the Walmart parking lot. It was a five minute walk to Josiah’s. The road was technically a freeway of some sort, but it barely held the name with how little traffic it got. It led up into a series of dusty hills dotted with dilapidated shacks that passed for middle class.

Their shoes crunched rock and sand as they walked up. They had only a phone to light the way--that and the moon. Shiro didn’t speak; Keith didn’t watch him. They passed houses with darkened windows and those with flickering TVs. At the very top of the hill--an eighth mile high--was Josiah’s house. Music echoed in the stucco walls. A few bikers were laughing out front, decked in leather jackets and cowboy boots. Keith led Shiro along the edge of the house. There was a three foot drop between the levelled platform the house rested on and the the road they walked.

When they were in the middle, Keith peered down both ways. The carousing was louder by the back, unsurprisingly, but no one was staggering over to check the sides yet. Keith hopped on to the level sand, crouched, and scuttled towards the white walls. Shiro followed behind him.

They’d climbed walls before. Sometimes they needed to terrorize the wealthy, and the wealthy liked their privacy from the unwashed masses. Shiro boosted Keith with the practice of dozens of invasions. Keith fell into the brush, wincing as the ugly rock music assaulted him. He edged away from the wall and braced himself to steady Shiro.

When Shiro came over, it was a half-tumble. The vegetation and Keith kept his face from mashing against the ground. Shiro released a cut off moan as he brought himself to his feet. He deflated at Keith’s twitching lips.

Shiro leaned in and whispered. “As though you’d do better.”

Keith shrugged. “I couldn’t do worse.” He reached down and pulled out his gun. “One shot at this, Shiro.” Couldn’t they just turn back? It wasn’t necessary to do this, except that it absolutely was, and if they _didn’t_ do it, the Morettis’ help would be compromised. “Let me face him first. He might hesitate with me.” He hoped.

The side gardens had a thin path over which the jungle loomed. Keith went around to the back, his gun pointed down but both hands ready. Spotlights hit the blue pool, sending the water into an array of sparkles. The patio furniture looked worn, almost melted, and no one sat on it. Glass doors covered the back of the house; inside was a kitchen built of steel and granite. It looked like someone had imported a upscale LA condo to the middle of nowhere.

What mattered, though, was the man who sat at the counter, a bottle of vodka in hand and a giant tumbler in front of him. His back faced the pool, but Keith recognized the head of pale red hair. It was patchy and balding, threatening liver spots on his scalp, but it was Josiah Starkweather.

Every muscle, every tendon, and every thought inside him froze like a possum caught by a coyote. This was it. The man he’d run from for so many years was a pane of glass away. Josiah didn’t know he was right there. He thought Keith was on the road, or creeping towards the Devil’s Bone. Not in his backyard, armed alongside a man who knew nothing of what had happened. Keith could still turn them back.

He nudged open the glass. In the din of rock music, Josiah didn’t hear. His howling voice had joined in the chorus in raging at something or another, God or fate, and when the chorus ended, he threw back his drink. Shiro tailed behind Keith.

His eardrums thundered. It was agony this close. Josiah was only spared because of his damaged hearing. Keith raised his pistol and aimed it at the base of Josiah’s skull. When the muzzle pressed against the withered skin, Josiah stiffened.

He wasn’t fast enough anymore. He tried to lunge to the side, but his bones were rickety and his muscles half-gone. Age hadn’t just caught up with him: it had beaten him to a pulp and left very little behind. Josiah fell to the floor. To the side, Shiro hunted for the radio. Josiah looked up at Keith. His watery blue eyes were fierce like an old lion’s growl.

The radio went silent. Keith’s ears rang. Josiah opened his mouth to shout for help, but Keith slammed his foot into Josiah’s thigh. “Not a word,” he hissed. “We do this quietly, or not at all.”

Josiah grit his teeth as he grabbed his thigh. It’d be a solid bruise tomorrow. “Get it over with, boy. It’s what you’ve been dreaming of, isn’t it?”

Shiro loomed behind Keith. What was his expression? Curiosity? Anger? Or nothing? Keith hoped it was the last. He crouched down to level with Josiah. He was several feet away--out of range for Josiah to grab at him.

“I’ve come,” Keith said, “to negotiate.”

Josiah stared. Then he burst into laughter. “Why would I do _anything_ for you? You joined us and left just as fast. You don’t know the meaning of loyalty. Your old family knows that well.”

“It’s not about them.” His voice was placid, but he’d noticed Shiro’s shadow stiffen. So long as Josiah didn’t say anything more, maybe he could get away with it being a secret. “I need something from you--”

“You could ask for my piss,” Josiah replied, “and I’d still say no. There isn’t anything on this ball of dust that I’d give you, Keith. You--” He jabbed a crooked finger at Shiro. “You know who he was to me?”

Shiro waited a beat. “No,” Shiro admitted. Keith tried to not flinch.

Josiah’s eyes brightened. It wasn’t just the alcohol. He smelled blood in the water. “A _son_. My own flesh and blood, even if he came from away. He could have been Keith Starkweather--he’d earned the right--but he was a coward. He killed his family and blamed me for it. Is that the kind of man you should be protecting?”

Shiro said nothing. Keith filled the sudden quiet. “The past is done. You tried to get me arrested, Josiah. I’d say we’re even.”

“Are we? I was making an example of you.” Josiah bared yellowed teeth. “It didn’t work. You went north, after all, and by that little tattered suit of yours, you did well for yourself. Why did you bother crawling back?”

Because things had gone wrong, and Keith didn’t know what to do. He’d fled back to his ‘father’ like a scared child. The loathing that welled in him clogged his throat. He tried to swallow it down and speak. Shiro got there first.

“The Kingdom’s fallen,” he said. Josiah rolled his eyes. He knew that already. But there was something he didn’t know.. “The Empire is pushing its way down the western seaboard.” _Eventually_ , but he edited that out. “They’re planning on taking control of everything--drugs, smuggling, rackets… If the Empire can do it, they want it.”

“So?” Josiah leaned back, a lopsided grin on his face. “I’m south-west of every one of you. My shipments go north or south--never west. If the western states become a bloodbath, _good_.”

“Not good,” Keith said quietly. Josiah laughed, as though the entire thing was a joke. Anger bubbled. He swallowed it down. “The Empire is building a drug the world hasn’t seen before. More addictive than heroin, no side effects but craving, the entire supply controlled by the Empire. If you think your shipments of cocaine are going to match well against that, you’ve got a whole other thing coming.”

Josiah shrugged. “I can make a deal with them--ship their product using my lines. You know business, Keith, and this is just another angle.”

“They’ll take it from you.” Keith let the words drop like bombs. Josiah frowned at him. “The shipping companies, the banks, the properties--the Empire will come to Clarence and raze it to the ground before they let you get a take.”

“Bullshit.”

Shiro’s shadow shrugged, just as careless as Josiah had, and spoke in a low voice. “It’s not. You don’t know who’s behind the Empire, do you? Or who’s behind the Kingdom. It’s far off politics with far off people--people who’d never send a look your way, so you’ve never had to wonder. The information you need to know is what cartels are nearest to the border, and where the cops are patrolling now.”

Fire entered Josiah’s eyes. “I’m not an _idiot_. Who is this, Keith? Why are you letting him talk?”

Keith’s mouth twisted and he mimed Josiah’s shrug like Shiro had. “I don’t own him.”

“Then you’re weaker than I thought,” Josiah spat. “They don’t know this state. I don’t care who’s in charge of your empires and kingdoms--this is _mine_. I’ve bled for this shithole since I was a boy. And unlike one of you, I never ran from what I had. I’m not going to start now.”

“You don’t have to run!” Keith tried to reign in his fury, but it was too sharp. “If you show a bit of sense, you can help us take out the Empire and you won’t have to do your own personal Alamo. There’s a third option, like I’ve _always_ told you--”

“Don’t you lecture me.” The words were ice to Keith’s fire. “I’ve listened to you more than enough over the years, and I won’t be listening to a jumped up over-dressed brat. Your body’s grown bigger, but you still have the mind of a child. Why would I get involved in something out of my way? You think I’ll--what? Arm you? Send my brothers to help you? I’d rather cut my own arm off.”

It didn’t matter if Daniels personally came and set Josiah on fire. Keith was worse. Keith had left him. Keith had blamed him for something Keith had done, and that was the end of it. But they needed Josiah. Otherwise, they’d have to rely only on the scattered remnants of the Kingdom and whatever the Morettis were kind enough to send. Keith wasn’t in the mood to rely on chance and charity. So what did he do? The answer agonized him. He needed to flagellate himself.

“I didn’t want to run,” he said.

Josiah snorted. “That didn’t stop you.”

“It didn’t.” Keith holstered his gun. Shiro would have to take over protection. He let himself go to the ground like Josiah. The tile hurt his ass. He forced himself to ignore it. “I was seventeen and scared out of my mind. I know it was inevitable that I’d kill someone, but did it really need to be them?”

“The Hacketts were going to ruin things,” Josiah said tartly. “You were still seventeen. If they’d sent you to Florida, you’d never make it back. Worse, CPS would have investigated. All it’d take is one question to the wrong person, and they’d know where you went most of the day, and who you were around. You’d got into so many fights, and you were always around the bar. If they’d investigated where you worked--” He grimaced. “The records would have said everything. They needed to die. You could have been the tragic orphan, and I’d have brought you into the Dead Man’s Hand properly. But you’re a lily-livered coward. You burned them alive and then you went west. Was it worth it? Because you’re still back here in the end.”

Ash filled his stomach and powdered his throat. He tasted nothing but bitterness and smoke. He hadn’t meant to fuck things up so _royally_. Everything he touched turned to shit. Whether it was the Kingdom, the Hand, or the Hacketts--it all fell apart. He took a breath. It hitched in his throat. Shiro said nothing; Josiah was too busy nurturing his smirk to care what Keith said.

“There are worse things,” Keith said, “than trying to be your own man. If I’d stayed, what would I have been? A puppet, a display, another trinket for you to display alongside your Harleys and Porsche. I had to try to be someone else.”

Josiah watched him. “Why?”

“Because I couldn’t stand to be who I was.” The words shocked him as they spilled out. Shiro’s hand inched out, but Keith leaned away from it. Josiah couldn’t see what they were to each other. It’d make this worse. “I spent my entire childhood being a monster, then capped it off by murdering people who’d spent years making sure I had food and a roof over my head. I don’t even know if the kids went back in. I never looked in the papers. I didn’t know what I’d do if they’d died.”

He’d tried to spare them. His foster father and mother needed to die, but the kids weren’t the target. He’d woken the kids as he left the set up, all of them painfully young. He’d called them out and closed the door behind them while they searched for the familiar voice calling for them The fire had grown exponentially bigger as the accelerants fed it. He’d heard screams.

He thought he’d got all the kids out. He’d run through the checklist again and again, but he hadn’t stayed to look after them. He’d left the infant on the doorstep for the eight year old to pick up and had bolted down the highway. The next day, he’d headed west. Anything was better than the stares and quiet questions that Keith _knew_ Josiah had hushed up.

It’d all been pointless. Josiah had lost Keith anyway, even if he got to keep his business. It hadn’t been worth it. That’d haunted Keith for years. It still did, if he was honest.

Josiah watched him, considering. “... The kids lived.” Keith jerked his head up. “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Hackett died. Miserably, if the rumours were right. The missus suffocated as she tried to open the window you jammed shut. Mr. Hackett broke down the door and tried to carry her out. But the flames got him, and he refused to let go of her body.”

It was cruel for Josiah to say it, but if it was the truth, he deserved nothing less. The Hacketts had been awful people--racist about him being Japanese, nasty about homosexuals, even cruel about his parents being poor and one of them from abroad--but nobody deserved to burn to death. Keith forced his jaw to loosen from a painful grinding.

“What happened to the kids?”

“Some were adopted by the Hacketts’ extended family,” Josiah said, as though they weren’t discussing the most traumatic event of the four kids’ lives. “The baby went to the grandparents, the twins to an aunt’s, and then the other fostered pieces of refuse went back into the system. They probably had better lives than what they’d have got otherwise. They should be thanking you, though I doubt they think of you much. Nobody pointed the finger in your direction. I told the cops that you’d run away days ago.”

Keith stared. “The kids didn’t say anything?”

“That your voice was calling to them? Last I heard, people thought it was an angel pretending to be you. It saved all the kids, after all.” Josiah smiled ghoulishly. “They’d feel a lot different if they knew the real you.”

Weight lifted from his shoulders. Yet the memory of the parents’ screams rang in his ears. He wasn’t a complete monster. Just a partial one. “I’m not what I once was.”

Josiah laughed. “You aren’t. I’m not sure I like the new you. You’re slick and earnest and just a little too fucked up to make into anything great. A decade ago, you’d have been able to bleed all of Arizona dry. I thought you just needed a push. Seems I threw you over the ledge.”

“Maybe,” Keith conceded. He tried not to withdraw. It was always tempting to fade into the back. It was easy to be distant. “Maybe I’m a shadow of myself. But so are you. Your liver’s been dying since you were sixteen. You’re balding, getting liver-spots--even your eyes look weaker. You broke me. Time broke you. When they finally take you to the hospital because the yellow tinge to your eyes is thick as syrup, what’s going to be left? You ever find someone to replace me?”

Josiah stared. “... No. I never could.” Josiah didn’t look soft or pitiable. He looked _angry_ with his clenched jaw and scowl. “They were too dumb, too sluggish, built of jelly and full of shit. You were a firecracker. You knew what you wanted and you weren’t afraid of getting it. None of the brats in Clarence are like that anymore. We’d have to import kids with spines.”

“The Hand won’t last with that,” Keith said neutrally.

Josiah’s scowl deepened. “And what? You think I should surrender it to you so you can ride back up north and pick up the pieces? I’d rather the Hand die than go to the Kingdom. Or _you_.”

“Then it won’t go to anyone but another old man--and when he’s gone, the Hand is too.” Keith leaned forward. “You have no legacy, Josiah. No heir means no dynasty. Nobody’s going to remember you except as the guy with the big house and a big mouth.”

Watery eyes sharpened. “And you’d cut the balls off each man left. Little eunuchs to prance around New Meridian. I’ll make the world bleed before I go out. They’ll remember me because of the scar.”

“So you’ll--what? Kill some cops? Set fire to some buildings in Tucson?” Keith laughed. “You’re not big enough to leave a scar. You’re a papercut. You’ll be on the news for a day and forgotten by the weekend.”

Josiah lunged out. His hand tried to snap around Keith’s throat. Keith knew him, though. He jerked back in time; Shiro steadied him as Keith endured Josiah’s glare.

“I should fucking kill you,” was all Josiah said.

Keith smelled the rank stench of a sulk. He was getting somewhere. Josiah had always been vain. He wanted a legacy, and at the age of sixty-five with a dying liver, he didn’t have long to build it. Going out in flames wasn’t Josiah’s style. He was too smart for that. He wanted something that’d last beyond the news cycle.

Keith licked his lips and watched Josiah for another lunge. “You probably should, but you won’t. Because you’re thinking what I’m thinking. A nowhere biker gang getting involved in the biggest metropolis on the western seaboard? A place so big and wealthy it rivals London, New York, and Tokyo put together? New Meridian _is_ the world. It’s the beating fucking heart of the place. And if you get involved in its politics, you become more than a drunk loser who spends his nights playing cards with has-been bikers and destroying your own hearing through shitty rock.”

“I’ll have you know,” Josiah said, “that Warlock is not _shitty_ \--”

Keith waved a hand. “The point stands. You know what I’m offering. You want to go out in flames? Remembered by millions, and on the news cycle for longer than a three minute segment? Get involved in this. It won’t be just those of us underworld who’ll know you. You’ll be able to massacre hundreds and put your mark in the middle of downtown New Meridian. _Everyone_ will know the Dead Man’s Hand, and Josiah fucking Starkweather.”

Josiah eyed him. “... You’re still a failure.”

Keith refused to flinch. “Does it matter if you get your blaze of glory?”

It didn’t, in the end. Whether Josiah still held affection for him or not, Keith didn’t know. It didn’t matter. There were a lot of things that didn’t matter: Josiah’s foul breath, the guards outside who gaped when they walked out of the compound, or Josiah’s laugh as he reminded Keith again that he was a failed project, a mistake that lived and breathed and wasn’t wanted, not even by the people he’d killed for.

It didn’t matter. They’d got a hundred bikers. With the right weapons, the bikers would kill thousands Empire soldiers. It would be all-out war in New Meridian. The Morettis’ help would give the bikers skilled support as they acted as wrecking balls. Strategically, things could not have gone better.

Every time Josiah spoke, though, bile rose in Keith’s throat. He forced a smile anyway. Things were fine. There was no reason to be angry. Josiah was a vicious bastard who’d fucked Keith up in irreparable ways, but it wasn’t like Keith had ever been _whole_. If he had been, he’d never have gone near the Hand.

He took a swig of rum from one of the guards. Keith thought he recognized the man, but he didn’t care to know what the man had been up to or who he really was. Shiro hovered at his shoulder the entire time, forever smiling but eyes chips of black ice. Even when the racist jokes came, Shiro said nothing. He endured like Keith had. Maybe he hoped the drunken guard got shot in New Meridian. Keith sure did.

It was witching hour when they walked away. Keith waited for someone to raise a gun and kill them both as they left. Nobody did. It’d been real, then, or Josiah found amusement in leading them on. They wouldn’t know until the battle happened.

They checked the car when they got back. No bombs were waiting to go off. Keith took the driver’s seat. Shiro took shotgun. Neither of them spoke as Keith drove them from the parking lot. It wasn’t until they were on the outskirts that Shiro said anything.

“I want to see it.”

Keith didn’t look away from the road. “See what?”

“The house.”

Ice filled Keith’s veins. “No.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shiro leaning in. “Don’t try it, Shiro. I don’t want to see it. What happened is over.”

“It’s not,” Shiro said calmly. “If it was, you wouldn’t care about seeing the house. Take me there and I won’t bring it up again.”

Keith almost called him on the lie. Keith wanted, desperately, to believe it, but that wasn’t Shiro’s style. And yet--and yet he found himself turning the car down the highway, through a dirt road, along a bumpy pothole ridden lane.

The Hacketts had lived in a house that’d belonged to Charity’s grandmother. It’d been old and built of weathered wood. Jonathan Hackett worked in construction. In Clarence, that meant repairing what the Hand destroyed and building the luxurious homes of the Hand’s brass. Jonathan had hated the Hand--vocally so--but he’d known where his paycheck was coming from.

When Keith was first seen with the Hand, Jonathan had left stripes of red over Keith’s skin. A belt buckle mark had almost been spotted by Josiah. The man would have seen nothing wrong with the beating except that it was Jonathan doing it. Either way, neither the beating or Josiah’s almost-discovery stopped Keith from walking the dusty asphalt to the crossroads. There, whichever biker had lost a bet most recently would be there to pick him up.

The Hacketts had tried to homeschool him. Initially, his social worker had asked that he be socialized with other children. But when he became a problem child, he was pulled out. The Hacketts’ preferred translation of the Bible was put in front of him, and he was told to hate himself.

It hadn’t stopped him from slipping out. It hadn’t stopped him from running away for days--only to be captured by tired police who ferried him back to the Hacketts. Jonathan and Charity had put manacles of every kind on him. He’d be left to look after the baby, which he couldn’t leave in a building without air conditioning. He’d be locked in his room, unable to escape unless he broke something--either his neck from jumping out the window or a door. One time, Jonathan had even sent him to the cellar to do his homework and locked the door behind him.

In the end, Keith always got out. Years passed in a game of cat and mouse. Jonathan threatened Josiah: Josiah laughed it off, turning the threats on to Jonathan. Charity begged Keith to pray at every opportunity. She believed that if he accepted Jesus, he might be less of a monster. She didn’t understand that it was too late.

There’d been a dysfunction in his parents, he thought. Something hadn’t been wired quite right. He’d been born different, born as an outsider. And when things had become too much, the Hacketts had realized the only way to get Keith out of the Hand was to send him far, far away.

And that had been their end. In the dark of night, Keith had played the banshee, calling out to those inside of impending death. His handiwork sealed in Jonathan and Charity Hackett, while the hand of the devil spared their children.

At the end of the lane, all that remained was a burnt out husk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is the 12th!


	6. Chapter 6

It was a world unmarked by people. Long expanses of nothing but scrub, stone, and sand. Sunlight beat down on to the dash, turning it burning hot. Shiro’s sunglasses melted atop it, and they’d refused to touch it since. The pit stops they made were less for the bathroom and more to dispose of garbage. There was a constant collection of food--in the cup holders, in the glove box, in the back, in a cooler that Shiro had bought off a trio of tired Oklahoma tourists.

Keith understood New Mexico. It had a Pueblo charm. Texas was Texas--big and brash and boisterous. But he didn’t understand Oklahoma. All it had was flat fields and locusts. Cities that were more like villages huddled together against the heat and sheer expanse of _nothing_. The cities--Tulsa and Oklahoma City--were better.

Sort of, admittedly. The cities were hot and ugly, looking like every other mid-tier city with a bit of money, but they had life. Keith drove them through the barren state until they reached Missouri--Missouri, which was a breath of fresh air.

There were _hills_. Roads went up and down. The sheer excitement made Shiro take over. He’d spent Oklahoma sleeping. When the forests came, at first as little trees, Keith found himself glued to the window. He’d missed green nature. The deserts and plateaus of the southwest were brutal after so long in Oregon.

If they could have, Keith would have made them stop in St. Louis. He’d never been, but he’d heard stories about it. The water and lights dazzled him. Wishful thinking about zoos and museums went by the wayside. They had a deadline. They were already going to cut it close: it was 150 hours there and back, without being waylaid or stuck in traffic. Conditions didn’t care to be that ideal. They got stuck in afternoon traffic in St. Louis, which took off some of the shine. People honked their horns and hollered out their car windows, but nothing changed.

Indiana felt like the home stretch. It was the point where it sunk in that Keith was about to see Shiro’s skeletons. Shiro hadn’t mentioned what he’d seen and heard in Arizona or L.A. He’d said nothing as they looked at the ruins of the Hackett’s home. Keith had watched him leave the car and wander around the shattered beams and ashes. Keith had almost said something, though he didn’t know what, when Shiro came back. They hadn’t spoken of anything but what they saw along the roads afterward.

Indiana declared itself the ‘crossroads of America’. Keith found himself surprised at how pretty it was--all rivers and farms and forests. It wasn’t a wasteland like Clarence, but it didn’t have the busyness of California. They wound down twisting roads, the car’s wheels spitting up dirt in a spray. They stopped by an ice cream shop in a small town and then Shiro mentioned breakfast.

The diner served pancakes and sausage and even little boiled eggs for kids. Shiro chose the hungry man special. Keith chose something lighter on protein: he ordered waffles. The waitress clucked at them when she heard they’d eaten ice cream for breakfast.

“Men,” she’d muttered, a smile still on her face. “You two boys just be patient. We’ll feed you right.” She looked at least forty and Keith tried not to feel mothered.

The food had been decent. Better than ice cream for breakfast, at least. They hadn’t lingered in the town or diner. The closer they got to the east coast, the more urgency filled them. Keith found his foot turned to lead. Ohio, then Pennsylvania--and Lord, Pennsylvania. The state seemed to go on forever. They cut across it horizontally, skipping Pittsburgh in favour of a southern route along its bottom.

Summer kept them warm. All the roadside attractions were out, tacky and plastic, almost like copies of things they’d seen before. Shiro fiddled with the radio every hour, forever searching for the station that was _just_ right. Not close, but perfect.

He wouldn’t find it until they reached Allentown. By then, the rush of New York City coming up had hit them. Shiro pulled them over while it was dark and called his family. It was two hours until they arrived, and they’d skip the traffic too. After several days of travel, two hours seemed like nothing.

Keith caught fragments of the call. Someone was sick with the flu. The dogs missed Shiro. Who was he bringing along? Keith, Shiro said but didn’t elaborate on. Keith went back to the car to give him an ounce of privacy--or at least the illusion of it. In a few hours, Keith would see all the dirty laundry.

Shiro turned off the radio for the rest of the drive to New York City. The silence weighed them down like concrete. Shiro kept opening his mouth, breathing out as though about to say something, and then snapping it closed. Keith forced himself not to become irritated. After all, how annoying had Shiro found Keith’s dancing around of the subject?

Keith now had the dubious pleasure of feeling ‘free’ from his past. Shiro knew what he’d done. There wasn’t anything in the shadows he hadn’t shared. Keith didn’t think Shiro could have something that bad waiting in New York. It was just his family and the training-wheels gangs he’d roamed around in until he moved down to Miami. At least, that was what Shiro said. Who knew what the truth was? Keith had hidden enough from Shiro that Keith was honestly surprised the man hadn’t punched him.

The roads into New York were busy, even in the dead of night. Entering the city itself proved to be a sluggish journey. Never clogged or jammed, but always threatening to. They’d be stuck sandwiched between two taxis, and Keith would--after minutes of waiting--assume that they were going to be stuck for the next thirty minutes. But then something would give up ahead, and Shiro would gently guide them through the tangled web of streets.

Manhattan was a madhouse, one where everyone scrambled around like rodents fleeing water. Everything loomed over the streets--offices, stores, apartment buildings--and Keith tried not to feel small. New Meridian’s skyline could be large by times, but most of the streets were elevated, providing a hundred overpasses for people inside the city, and underpasses for those entering. Manhattan was a warren; New Meridian was a honeycombed hive.

How Shiro still knew how to navigate the twisting streets, Keith didn’t know. What he did know was that Shiro pulled them in front of a brownstone townhouse. The lights were on at the small steps to the door. The building, Keith thought, looked like taffy that’d been stretched a little too far. There were over a half dozen windows over its front and terraces for the top two floors.

“You lived _here_?” Keith said. He wasn’t appalled. He was just surprised. He’d known the Shiroganes had money, but there was money and then there was owning a Manhattan townhouse.

Shiro shrugged. “My mother’s a doctor,” he replied, voice almost shy, “and my father’s in real estate. It’s just them and my grandfather now, so they sold the old house.”

They’d had a _house_ in Manhattan. Keith forced himself not to rub his temples. “You realize I’m going to seem like--like a fucking _hick_ to them.”

“Your English isn’t that bad,” was the response.

Keith whipped his head around. Heat spread up his neck. He realized that this was what Shiro had tried to keep from him: that dull, nagging sense that Shiro was out of his league, even if Keith had a pretty face. “It’s not the English, Shiro. It’s the everything else. Do they know I didn’t go to college? Or graduate high school?”

“You have a GED--”

“Which isn’t what your parents are going to want.” God, he felt like a bride freaking out at her wedding. He breathed deep. “What _do_ they know about me?”

Shiro drove them past the house, presumably toward a parking garage. “... That I met you through work. You’re a good employee with an eye for numbers. You’re handsome, clever, and sharp-tongued. I didn’t need to talk about college or anything else. They think you work in accounting while I’m in management.”

Keith stared down at his hands. HIs brain whispered that they were stained with blood, but he brushed the thought away. It was too dramatic for what he felt: simple inadequacy. “If they ask me about accounting, I’ll fuck it up.”

“I’ll cover for you.” Shiro hesitated. “It was the best I could think of,” he admitted. “They asked and I almost said chemistry because of the arson, but my mother would ask about organic chemistry, and all you’d have is how to set the best fires.”

Something he’d learned through experience. Keith stayed quiet as they drove into the dark building. Shiro knew how the system worked. He didn’t drive around, searching for a berth to park them in. Instead, he circled up higher and higher, right to the second top floor. He took them down a passage, into darkness, and when he stopped the car, he gave a satisfied nod.

“It’s the spare parking place my parents have for visitors,” Shiro said, as though that was _normal_.

It wasn’t. Keith wished they’d stayed overnight before arriving in New York. They could have got their clothes cleaned. Keith gathered himself as he left the SUV. Shiro didn’t say anything comforting as they took the elevator down to the busy, noisy streets. People thronged the sidewalks. Keith and Shiro stood out slightly--both because of their formal clothes, and because of how messy they looked.

The townhouse row had pretty lights. Keith would have enjoyed the sight of a tidy little street a little more if it hadn’t been so full of a promise to fuck up his life. Shiro went to the door and knocked twice. Keith waited behind on the sidewalk.

An older woman answered the door. She was bleary-eyed and pale, but her expression brightened when her eyes alighted on Shiro. “Sweetie!” She lunged at him, wrapping small, thin arms around her gigantic son. The glimpse he’d caught of her revealed where Shiro had got his high cheekbones and razor-sharp jaw.

When Shiro’s father came to the doorway, Keith saw where the size had come from. “Takashi,” the man rumbled out. Keith tried to imagine him meeting hesitant home seekers. There’d have to be some _changes_ between waking up and meeting them.

Shiro switched to Japanese. A flurry of dialogue passed between the three. Keith shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched, looking around at his surroundings. He didn’t take much in. He wished, not for the first time, that he spoke Japanese. But he’d never had the time to learn, and when he’d been a child, no opportunity or money.

When Shiro turned around, the smile Keith got was strained. “This is Keith Kogane,” Shiro said. Shiro’s father offered a hand. Keith took it and regretted it instantly. Shiro’s father had the grip of a vise. Shiro’s mother was better, at least--she gave him a hug.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said and Keith hoped it was a white lie.

Keith still forced a smile. “Same, Mrs. Shirogane.” He gave a nod to Mr. Shirogane. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” _Best foot forward, best foot forward, look them in the eyes, smile, don’t act weird_ \--

Except that was impossible for him. He walked into the house stiff as a board, took off his shoes with mechanical precision, and sat in one of the cozy living room chairs like it was a straight-backed board. Shiro and his parents were laughing softly and already breaking out food, as though he and Shiro hadn’t fled across the country to gather help for a mafia war. As though he and Shiro weren’t grimy and foul-smelling and greasy from days of diners and junkfood. Keith knew he should be grateful that Shiro’s parents were being so understanding, yet it only put him more on edge. Good things _always_ went bad.

Shiro’s mother was Olivia. His father was Asahi. Both were incredibly curious about Keith, but they had the manners to pretend he was a frequent visitor. The only blip to that charade was when Keith said his mother had been from Japan and Olivia had glowed with approval. _Another Japanese boy for her son! How lucky._

She didn’t know he hadn’t been raised in a Japanese family with Japanese values or Japanese as a tongue. Keith was aggressively _muttish_ about his origins. Both his parents were Japanese, sure, but he’d been raised in Arizona by white Americans around Latinos, then mentored by an Italian-Ghanaian American, and then finally working under an African-American woman several years his junior. Keith spoke three forms of English: rude, polite, and hick. Around the Shiroganes, he spoke polite.

Olivia and Asahi were consciously upper class. They were posh and cultured, serving cheeses Keith had never tasted in his life and wines they knew a little too much about.  Olivia gave him ‘pecorino’ and a nice white wine whose name washed over Keith and receded just as fast. The cheese was mouth-puckeringly salty. He didn’t know if he liked it. What he did know was that it was far from the gruyere Shiro swore by, and worlds away from the Kraft singles he was used to.

“What do you do for a living, Keith?” Asahi asked.

Kill people, Keith thought. But even in the light of truth, that wasn’t completely fair. Sometimes he went weeks without putting a bullet in anyone’s head. More accurate was--”Accounting,” he said smoothly, “and sometimes work in administration. I work for the Althea Corporation.”

Olivia’s glow returned. She beamed at him while Asahi tried to hide how chuffed he was. Things could not have been going better for Mr. and Mrs. Shirogane. Their Takashi had bagged someone of worth. Any upper-class worries of their rough and tumble son being alone forever or captured by someone made from tin and not gold had been soothed.

“What is your family like?” Olivia asked. The question was pure as freshly fallen snow. She didn’t know. There was no way for her to know. She’d walked along a well-trod path and fallen into a pit.

Keith couldn’t even be annoyed at the question he felt so bad for her. “I’m an orphan,” he said in the same smooth voice. There were no hitches or pauses, no signs of any emotion but calm.

Olivia’s face drained. The faux pas would haunt her sleep for the next few nights. Keith asked for more wine. Shiro poured it while Olivia excused herself, apologizing, likely leaving to compose her face into something pleasant again. Keith didn’t know how to tell her he didn’t give a fuck without lapsing into ‘rude’.

Asahi conducted the introduction in his wife’s absence. Asahi was an older man, slightly greyed about the temples, but he wore his age with dignity. He was in his sixties, still working, and enjoyed good food. A slight paunch was forming from that good food, but Keith thought he’d earned the right to carry it. Asahi’s dark eyes were bright, even at the late hour, full of friendliness he’d practiced in a thousand meetings with clients.

When Olivia returned, she was composed and smiling, carrying a board of fruit. Her eyes, Keith thought, were _steely_. Was she an ER doctor, or just one of those doctors who gained an armoured shell after dealing with crisis after crisis? She looked less weathered than Asahi, except for her hands. They were arthritic and gnarled. Surgeon, then, still possibly ER. But she had to be retired with her hands in that state, and she wasn’t.

Consultant, maybe. He wanted to ask, but once again Politese refused his curiosity. He took a little hors d'oeuvre plate and piled it with strawberries. Shiro didn’t look him in the eye when he did it. Keith didn’t even mean it like _that_. Just because they’d used strawberries once like that didn’t mean--

“How did you meet Takashi?” Olivia asked. A chopped banana was in a bowl of granola. She picked at it. He suspected she’d have dove in if not for company.

He’d free her, then. It was six in the morning, and he was tired. Grateful to be off the road, thrilled to be able to sleep in something that wasn’t the SUV, but tired. “I met Sh--him in management.” Was the nickname ‘Shiro’ something Shiro had started on the streets, or was it a childhood nickname? His parents called him Takashi,, but that didn’t mean anything. “It was a board meeting with finance, and I was an assistant. I almost spilled coffee on him, and he invited me to lunch.” Keith forced a laugh. It came out like a wealthy white woman’s laugh at an evening soiree. He tried not to hate himself for it. “I said yes immediately. And from there, well, things just happened.” He feigned a jaw-cracking yawn and covered it with another hand. “I’m sorry--!”

“No, no,” Olivia said. “You and Takashi have travelled a long way and deserve some rest. I’d hardly be much of a doctor if I kept you awake much longer! I’ll set an alarm for noon. It won’t be the finest rest you’ve ever had, but you’ll be functional. You can attend to whatever business Ms. Althea has you on, and then we can have an excellent dinner with your grandfather, Takashi! I’m sure he’ll love meeting Keith. I know we have, haven’t we, Asahi?”

Asahi, in fact, looked just as pleased as Olivia, if a bit more smug. While Olivia worked to clean up the table and furtively eat her banana granola, Asahi led them to the third floor. There were only two rooms in what was a segmented attic. One was a bathroom; the other was a guest room. All the children’s bedrooms, Asahi told him, had been at the old house.

“When they moved out,” Asahi said, “it didn’t make sense to stay around in a house so large. We’re getting older, and it’d become a struggle to keep it neat enough. We could have hired help, but what for? Neither of us are fans of nostalgia.”

The guest room had only one bed. Not a problem, except that Shiro was about three-fourths its side. As the door closed behind them, Keith let his arms cross and his shoulders slouch. The tiny room had been decorated in light colours and framed by a large window whose curtains were drawn. “I’m going to have to sleep on top of you,” Keith said grimly.

Shiro grinned. “Do you mind?”

“Not really, but your parents might. Your mom’s going to wake us up. If she sees me on top of you while you have a stiffy, it’s going to be an _awkward_ dinner.” Keith shrugged off his blazer and began to undo his dress shirt buttons.

Shiro pressed a kiss to his neck. Keith shrugged off his touch. “Not in your parents’ house,” he said sharply. “We’re not fucking teenagers. If you wanted to fuck, you could have sprung for a hotel room.”

Shiro flopped onto the bed, still dressed. He seemed perfectly unruffled by the things happening around them--but Keith knew how to read him better than anyone else. There was tension around his eyes and his grin looked a bit plastic. Keith sighed and took a seat on the bed.

“You didn’t want to come here, did you?” Keith asked quietly.

Shiro shook his head. The close shave to his skull meant the only thing that moved was the tuft of white hair. “I didn’t.” The stark admission hung like a weight around their necks. “But there are some people we’re going to need to bribe, and New York hotels are expensive. A lot of them are owned by the people I ran with before Miami.”

“Who were they?”

Shiro’s lips pursed. “Thieves,” was the reply. “Conmen. Murderers and drug dealers and the flunkies there of.” Shiro swallowed, his eyes fixed on the white ceiling. “I left here because it’s a scum bucket. Everyone’s fucked up on something, and they lose what makes them people, whether in a week or a decade. New York used to be something dreamlike, but since the corporations, it’s just a fucking nightmare.”

Keith remained quiet for a moment before speaking. “Who are we meeting?” He suspected they were less kind than the Morettis.

“You had Claire and Josiah. I’ve got Fay and Calzada.” Shiro rubbed his face. “Fay’s in the projects--tough bastard who got his start in racketeering. He taught me everything I know about those operations and a bit more I don’t care to remember.”

“What are we asking him for?”

“Whatever he can give. We didn’t leave on bad terms, not like your past. He saw what I was doing as a promotion, as like a fucking exchange student.” Keith placed a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. It only made Shiro’s voice wobble. “There’s a lot of shit I regret here, Keith. But Fay can send weapons like you wouldn’t believe, and Calzada’s got connections along every coast. He probably has a finger or two dipped into New Meridian. Either of them can open doors.”

Weapons and a surname like Fay left him with one hesitant question. “Fay Irish-Irish?”

“He’s a paddy bastard, yeah. Not tied to the IRA for a long time, but he’s known to hire any of them looking to make a new name abroad.” Shiro reached up and placed a warm hand on Keith’s. “He’s going to say shit that seems immensely reasonable, Keith. He’s going to sound sane and whip-smart. But if you listen to him, that silver tongue will lead you straight to a hell of your own making. Smile, nod, and let me do the talking.”

Keith slept poorly. Fay sounded ominous. Not the Josiah type of ominous, but the ominous of a grinning mugger or the laugh of a politician about to fuck their constituents over. What did Fay’s silver tongue look like? Was it coaxing and gentle, or ribald and rough?

When sleep came, it came in fits and starts. He tried not to toss and turn. Shiro lay on the bed, silent as the night was long, and the little mattress springs creaked whenever he twitched. Neither of them seemed to dream. The room was dark when Olivia knocked. She didn’t dare enter.

“There are leftover paninis from a day ago,” she told them, “and you can use the laundry machines on the ground floor so long as you don’t, ah, amble about naked. I saw enough of your bare bottom when you were a tot, Takashi.”

Shiro flushed cherry red. “Mom--”

Olivia left them there with a laugh. Keith and Shiro camped out in the small semi-room as their expensive suits endured a washing cycle and the dryer. “Should it be hot or cold?” Shiro had asked, lips pursed as his finger hovered over the buttons.

“Neither,” Keith had replied, because it was some tailor’s nightmare to put these kinds of suits in a washing machine. “But cold will probably do the least damage.” ‘Cold’ was always safe.

He was partly right. The suits came out slightly rumpled and only good workmanship kept them together. “I feel like Warren would kill us both if he ever sees these,” Shiro said ruefully as he tried to neaten his lapels.

“We’re going to donate them after this.” Keith straightened his cross-hatched red tie. HIs suit was a fine charcoal to Shiro’s black. “Will Fay notice?”

“He’d only notice if we turned up in burlap.” Shiro surrendered to his lapels. “He’s going to be in a suit, but not the kind of suit Allura would approve of. Boxy, cheap, a little too slick and tacky. Don’t say a word about it. He thinks he’s being smooth.”

Samuel Fay owned a cabaret. It wasn’t like Josiah’s bar: the Roost was a classy little joint where new money and old money slummed together with dancing girls and expensive drinks. It wasn’t, on the surface, prostitution. None of the girls offered, and none of the clients asked. Everything was arranged online. Money changed hands--and girls waited to go home with clients. Even some of the men, bartenders and bouncers and waiters alike, got in on the action. Money was money. Every employee at the Roost was attractive and on the prowl to hustle. And in the centre of the cabaret sat Samuel Fay. To either side were bodyguards; in front, a pair of waiters, one a woman, the other a man.

Samuel Fay could best be described as compact. Reedy, short, and sharp like a cut bullrush, a mop of tawny hair crowned a misshapen skull which housed a misshapen face. Samuel laughed like a jackal with a gusto that seemed feigned. His words carried a fading lilt, the old country wearing off him like the polish on a beaten floor. The magic was dying. Soon he’d sound like just another New Yorker.

The bouncers said nothing when Shiro led Keith in. There was no awareness or realization, and so no texts or whispers. Shiro came up from behind Fay, his face grim. A beat passed as Shiro’s looming shadow covered Fay’s little lounge spotlight. Fay turned around, a vicious, ratty annoyance at his lips. When he saw Shiro, his eyes widened.

“You jackass!” Fay laughed. “Come back to see a doll or two?” He motioned to the pair in front of him. “You can’t have either of these two, you randy dog.” Murky blue eyes sharpened. “But then you already have a boy, don’t you?”

Keith somehow suspected that, at 28, he no longer counted as a ‘boy’. He didn’t say that. Shiro filled the silence. “I’m not here for your favourites,” Shiro said quietly. Low jazz walked between the couches and tables like a lazy cat. “I’m here to talk business.”

Fay flopped back against the couch. His arms crossed and his head bowed, as though he were a petulant child sulking over a mother’s scolding. “Not sure I want to hear it,” he finally said, “but I made you. A father owes that to his son, eh? You two--” He jabbed a finger at the pair of pretty young things. “Out. If I want to see you again, you’ll know. And darlin’? Try not to wear lipstick that red again. Makes you look cheap.”

If he hadn’t owned the place, the woman probably would have punched Fay in the balls. As it was, she forced a toothy, gritting smile and stalked away to find another prospect. Keith and Shiro took their seats. Keith tried not to feel like it was an interrogation or an interview, but the lounge lights didn’t help.

Shiro shifted, leaning forward as his elbows rested on his knees. “You know what’s happened in New Meridian.”

“Who doesn’t?” Fay’s arm snaked out to grab a glass of whiskey. “New Meri-whatsit is on fire. Rome is burning, and the Goths are moving in.” He paused. “I don’t think the time on that’s quite right--”

“It isn’t,” Shiro said. “But your point stands. The Empire is taking over; the Kingdom is in retreat--it’s not over though, Samuel. We’re getting help. There are members of the Kingdom around, and they’re ready to take New Meridian back.”

Fay took a long drink. He clacked the glass against the table and kicked back. His arms cushioned his head as a Cheshire’s grin spread over his face. “And what,” he asked, “does that have a damn thing to do with me?”

“You can make a deal with the Kingdom. You send some weapons--you get whatever you want in return.”

It was a wider deal than Keith would have given. It seemed to flatter Fay, though. Fay reached into his pocket and drew out a cigarette. He didn’t light it, making some excuse about smoking laws, but he rolled it between his forefingers with the practice of someone who smoked a pack a day.

“I want half of New Meridian,” Fay finally said.

Keith stiffened as Shiro shook his head. “Start smaller. You taught me better than to start astronomical, Samuel. Give me something reasonable.”

The cigarette rolled and rolled. Flecks of tobacco fell from the tip. “Twenty five percent of the next year’s take. Not while you’re cleaning up, but after.”

That was billions. The Kingdom owned the western side, including the docks, which was its own chunk of change, but Althea Corporation had billions in revenue. It was one of the biggest conglomerates in the world. There was very little that didn’t have the Altheas’ fingerprints somewhere. It was better than half of New Meridian as many more billions passed through its shores and along its streets, but it was an insulting offer. Samuel wanted to gouge the Altheas--he didn’t care about the rest of the enterprise, despite what he said.

Shiro stared at the cigarette. “Kingdom only,” he asked, “or are you including our backer?”

“Why wouldn’t I include Althea?” A chill crawled up Keith’s spine. Fay knew the truth. It made him far more dangerous than Josiah ever was.

Shiro didn’t even blink. “Then it’s not something reasonable. The Kingdom handles millions. Althea handles billions. Re-adjust the starting offer--”

“You’re not in a position to negotiate.” The sudden ice cut through the cabaret’s summer-slow atmosphere. “You came to _me_ , Takashi. You’re in the position of weakness. I’ll take what I want or you’ll negotiate better.” Fay laughed, sharp and suddenly warm. “Being with the Altheas has blunted you. You’re too used to beating your enemies with a stick when words would be better. If you’d talked, maybe GalTech wouldn’t own most of New Meridian. So how about this: you offer what you’ll pay me for my weapons, and I’ll pretend your opening sally never happened.”

Shiro’s cheek twitched as he ground his teeth together. Keith had sprawled on the couch, and he let his leg press against Shiro’s. _You can do this_ , he tried to say with his posture. A bit of focus, and Shiro would find a way. He’d been hired to the Kingdom for it--his ability to negotiate, to threaten, to cajole, and to lead.

“Access to Althea medicines,” Shiro said. “I know when I was with you, it was always a struggle to get our hands on enough of that. We’ll comp them--a few million dollars in medicine.” His hands steepled and he frowned at the carpeted floor. “Our accounting services can launder some of the money you have tied up in France.”

Fay raised a brow. “You still remember that?”

“Hard to forget when you almost knifed the launderer who fucked up the transfer.” Shiro nodded resolutely to himself. “So that’ll be fifty million brought from France to New York City--money you wouldn't have got otherwise. I know the state’s going to repossess it soon. Them or the bank.”

“... Keep going.”

Shiro forced a quick smile that came as a grimace. “I know you have construction projects. Last I heard, you were expanding on the artificial islands. But it’s too competitive. You’ve had world-class designs for three years, and not a fucking thing to show for it.”

“Not a damned thing,” Fay echoed. “Well, you’re right about that too. Everyone’s shy to invest in a possible bubble, and they think I have too much of a history and not enough of a silver spoon in my mouth for the right connections. Althea--Althea doesn’t need that spoon when they’ve got more money than the church has prayers. So they’ll speed along my permits and help fund construction. We’re at--” He flicked the cigarette on to the table where the mangled remains fell apart, sending out a wave of aged tobacco. “I’d say a little more than half million profit for me, with a bit of cash for your end as well. Anything else?”

Shiro sighed. “That’s my limit. You know asking for more’s greedy. And more’s not something I can give. Allura will honour the offer, but you’ve worked with corporate types.”

“Not a damn penny to spare,” Fay said sourly. “Fine. Let’s say I nod and bow and play as your little tool. What weapons are you expecting in return? If you wanted peashooters and a bomb or two, you’d have stayed on the West Coast.”

“As much as you have--”

“Then I have nothing.” Shiro’s jaw snapped closed. Keith thought he saw a vein bulge on Shiro’s neck. “Start small. Negotiate. You’ve offered me payment--and now you have to wring as much as you can out of me, just like I did with you, lad.”

“You haven’t got less condescending over the years, have you?”

Fay smiled, expression toothy. “And you haven’t got less thick and stubborn. I could have made you quicksilver, but instead you went south to peacock in the sun. Luxury’s made you soft. Show me what you could have been. I’ll forgive you for leaving if you do.”

Shiro didn’t fall back on the couch or sigh. “You never will,” he said. “I thought you were a man who liked the truth more than a lie. I still remember you howling over the phone, Samuel. But fine--maybe you like the taste of lies in your old age.” Samuel’s smile grew strained. Keith nudged Shiro, pretending he was merely adjusting how he sat.

Samuel-- _Fay_ , he reminded himself--noticed. “You his handler?”

Keith stiffened. “... I’m not anything.”

“Now that,” Sam--Fay pronounced, jabbing a triumphant finger at Shiro, “is a damned lie! Not me trying to make nice with the prodigal son. Tell me who he is. He’s squirming like a caught rabbit and nudging you like I don’t have a pair of working eyes.” Something predatory flashed through his eyes. “Did you finally take a sip of that honey, Takashi?”

“He’s not that,” Shiro snapped. “He’s a lieutenant for the Kingdom and my subordinate.”

Not completely true, but Keith didn’t care to help Samuel. He decided, then, to give up with the names. If Shiro wanted to call Samuel Samuel, it was easier to go with the flow.

Samuel shrugged. “He’s too pretty for you to have kept your hands to yourself. Did he get his start in pimping or trafficking?”

That was too much. “Arson,” Keith said. “Theft and robbery. A bit of enforcement and a lot of smuggling.” He forced himself not to grind his teeth. “No pimping or smuggling people. On either end.”

“Fiery, aren’t you?” Samuel contemplated Keith with an unreadable look. “I don’t believe Takashi hasn’t bent you over _something_ , but what father wants to know the details?” Keith wanted to punch him. “But go on, Takashi. Let’s see what you can get out of me.”

What ensued was… ugly. It wasn’t the Shiro Keith knew. His Shiro was collected, sharp but never needlessly cruel, and never erratic. But as Shiro talked to Samuel--negotiated--things set Keith’s nerves on edge. Shiro bared his teeth. He laughed with a jackal-lilt. Samuel mentioned people’s deaths: Shiro’s eyes would light in recognition, but all he’d share was a sarcastic comment about the dead’s failings.

Keith didn’t nudge him. He kept his face schooled to something neutral, maybe tinged with a bit of dourness. Samuel glanced at him now and then, always with a triumphant smile. _He’s mine_ , he seemed to say. _He was yours on loan._ The impulse to punch him worsened every time their eyes met.

Shiro pulled a half dozen things from Samuel. The more feral and harsh Shiro became, the more pliable Samuel turned. Shiro got a promise of sophisticated explosives, armoured vehicles, a pair of hitmen that Shiro had known in New York under Samuel’s control, a shipment of military-grade weapons for the West Coast, some drones, and a crate of armour. Shiro pushed for more, but Samuel only chided him, leading them back to the cabaret’s pleasant jazz.

Keith hated it. It was necessary, but he wished they’d never come. Samuel reached out with his foot and nudged Keith. Rage rose in his veins. Keith himself to remain blank-faced. “What?” he asked.

Samuel cocked his head to the side. “You look like you want to kill me,” he said dryly. “Upset at Takashi going native? How much did he tell you about what he’s done?”

Keith looked away. “As much as I need to know.” Which was, ultimately, nothing. Keith hadn’t even known Samuel’s first name.

Samuel smirked. He didn’t say anything to Keith, but he knew what Shiro had done. Would he take advantage of it? Shiro didn’t want to be back with Fay. He’d explicitly said he didn’t like the man. Shiro had been afraid of what Samuel could lead him into. Samuel was manipulative, persuasive, and a little mad.

A younger Shiro had believed in Samuel completely. What had chased Shiro away from New York City, and how aware was Shiro that he was falling back into what he’d run from? Keith hid his growing frown behind a glass of water.

Shiro and Samuel had lapsed into a comfortable silence. Shiro’s skin was flushed with exertion and his eyes were bright, despite having had nothing to drink. His legs were spread wide, and he leaned forward, expression almost crazed. Keith picked up Shiro’s glass and offered it to him silently.

Shiro startled. The sheen left his eyes, and his face paled. Samuel noticed, but didn’t comment on that. “You should see what the downtown’s like,” Samuel said. “You haven’t been to Brooklyn since you left, have you? I’d have seen you if you did.”

“I haven’t,” Shiro said. His voice was strained. “Is it still--?”

“A soup of the planet’s people?” Samuel was grinning. “It’s everything, Takashi. Every language, every race, every stripe or colour or what-have-you.”

Despite himself, Shiro once again leaned forward. “Did you finish the coliseum?”

“Right as it was on the paper,” Samuel said, beaming. “The government kept pushing to use the land for low-rent housing, but that doesn’t pay the bills. We rabble-roused anyone with money to get the government to piss off. It’s been operational for almost five years.”

“I--” Shiro shook his head, once again startling from his transfixed state. “No, me and Keith should keep moving. If we stay too long, GalTech will notice.”

His voice sounded almost drunk, the words stumbling out as he tried to convince himself not to go. Samuel didn’t look fazed. “What does that matter? It’s not like it’s much of a guess what you’re doing, and GalTech’s pull is nothing around here. If one of ‘em comes at you, they’ll be mailed back to GalTech’s HQ in Tupperware.”

This was too far. Keith sat up straight and leaned in to murmur to Shiro. Samuel released a gusty sigh at Keith but said nothing. Which was good, because Keith was one more smarmy remark or manipulation away from punching him out. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said quietly. “We don’t know what game he’s playing. You left for a reason, and he’s doing this for a reason. We need to leave, get back to your parents, say our farewells, and get driving down south.”

Samuel placed his whiskey glass down with a clack. His pale skin made his flush look more intense than Shiro’s bronze. “You’re whispering like a moth’s wings. Plotting, or are you scared I’ll take him back?” Keith glared, saying nothing. Samuel laughed, high and vicious. “You that weak, Takashi? That if I show you your pet project built from steel and timber, you’ll come running back?”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s afraid of.”

Samuel frowned, his lips pursed. “Then what’s he so damned nervous about?” Shiro opened his mouth to speak, but Samuel slashed out his hand in a quick movement. “No, let the lad speak. Tell me what’s got you nervous. You’ve been stiff as a board and cold as ice. What’s your problem?”

“You,” Keith said. Samuel laughed again, but Keith pressed on. “I know what you’re trying to do. You know you can’t get him back, so you’re going to make him regret leaving. You’re playing the friendly father figure when you aren’t really like that. You want me to wonder why Shiro left--and make Shiro wonder why he left too.”

Samuel’s smile was gone. “So that’s what you think. You’re wrong, but you won’t listen, will you? A man can’t be friendly to his own protégé without some harridan picking it apart. You chose a pretty face, Takashi, with a rotten lemon for a personality.”

 _Shut the fuck up_ , Keith thought. He chose his words more carefully when speaking. “I’m not a harridan, and I’m not a pretty face. Admit I’m right or drop the subject completely so we can continue this.”

Samuel scowled. “A bastard,” he muttered as he stood. “Who even is he? Where did he come from?”

The question landed at Shiro’s feet. “A friend I met in New Meridian.”

“Tell the truth,” Samuel said, “because I don’t want to ask _him_.”

“... A friend--” Samuel sighed. “A lover. He came from Los Angeles. He’s part of the Lions--the enforcement and commanding part of the Kingdom.”

Samuel turned, a brow raised. He picked apart Keith with a smile. “Now that’s interesting. So I guess he won’t mind our work too much.”

“Just what you do to Shiro,” Keith said calmly.

Samuel looked over at Shiro. “A new name, Takashi? Do I get to call you ‘Shiro’ too?”

“No,” Keith said before Shiro could say anything. Keith didn’t need the name Shiro to be tainted, and he knew it would be if Samuel started using it. “You want us to see the coliseum. Let’s get this over with.”

Keith walked with a straight back, a head held high, and a complete will to ignore how Samuel hissed unflattering things. What mattered was that Shiro followed. And since Shiro had followed, Samuel was forced to hurry after them. His pride was such that he hurried in front of Keith and began to pretend he was leading. Samuel, Keith thought, reminded him of a small dog--a chihuahua, maybe, or a pomeranian. Oblivious to his size and importance and deeply smitten with himself.

Samuel took shotgun. Keith didn’t even bother arguing. He went to the back, behind Shiro, and ignored the two bodyguards that piled in. Samuel chattered away, voice quick, talking about everything and nothing. The cabaret looked strange in the daylight. It was mid-afternoon, but it felt like it should be the middle of the night.

Shiro knew Brooklyn better than Manhattan. They took side streets and dodged the jammed thoroughfares. Samuel kept talking about the _old times_. One story concerned Shiro sleeping with a superior’s daughter; another was about Shiro killing a pair of cops who’d discovered how Samuel’s business was laundering money.

“You should have seen him, lad,” Samuel said, looking at Keith through the mirrors. “Poundin’ away at their computers, trying to erase all the data from cloud storage. If he’d been able to shoot them again, he would have.”

“Nobody needs a special password for every account.” Shiro glanced up to look at Keith in the mirror too. “It was like the Yin situation. It’s how I knew how to stop the leak.”

Ada Yin had been a New Meridian cop and a woman with a purpose. She’d dug around the docks, searching for who was funding the Kingdom. But nobody on the ground knew the Althea Corporation was behind it. Yin, though, had been smart enough to follow the money. Sometimes in illegal ways--ways that she’d justified by saying the Kingdom didn’t work fair. They’d found out about her work just in time to kill her before an announcement. Just in time to rip all her stolen information from the cloud and destroy the computer itself too.

“Yin?” Samuel asked. Shiro didn’t explain, though, and Keith took courage in that. Shiro wasn’t lost to Samuel. After a moment of no explanation, Samuel fell silent, brooding.

The coliseum took up a dozen blocks. To call it a ‘sports arena’ would minimize how it loomed over everything else. Tall as a tower, gleaming like a state-of-the-art office building, signs cluttered the coliseum’s sides. Shows, games, races, and fights were advertised.

“It’s the crown jewel,” Samuel said, grinning. “Made by your beau’s hands, boy.”

The words tasted sour. “And why did you build it?” Shiro opened his mouth, but Keith shook his head. “Not you. _Him_. Why’d you invest in the idea? This had to cost billions.”

“It did.” Samuel fell back in his seat. A cocksure smile graced his face. “Not all on my own dime--no smart man invests like that--but I arranged things. Courted investors. Split up stakes. Takashi was my representative when it wasn’t smart to show my face. He did a great job--right up until he left town.” Any buzz of annoyance was smoothed out by Samuel’s determined smugness. “He didn’t get to see me shove everyone else out of the project. I own this stadium, from the rivets to the concrete to the signs you keep looking at.”

Keith frowned. “And that’s why you need Althea’s help in building tenements. Because nobody’s going to trust you a second time.”

Samuel’s face scrunched up, his lips comically pursed in a wince. “... Maybe. In my defense, lad, I’m a wealthier man than before. I just need a bit more, ah, integrity behind the project. Althea isn’t likely to wrangle everyone from the development.”

He didn’t know Allura very well, Keith mused. But he didn’t say that aloud. Let Samuel think what he pleased. Allura could help Samuel fund the development--and then steal it from under him. It’d be poetic after what he’d done.

“If you’d stayed,” Samuel was saying, “you could have fought in the ring, y’know. I own the damned place. Instead of boxing rings in old warehouses, you could have been on TV. Then it wouldn’t have just been your friends calling you ‘Champion’.”

Shiro’s eyes didn’t waver from the road ahead. “I don’t want to be the Champion.” His quiet voice belied his otherwise calm facade. “I left for a reason, Sam. Let’s just see the stadium.”

That deflated Samuel. It wasn’t distress that flashed over his face but distilled confusion. This wasn’t the Shiro he’d known. What had happened? The answer was clear to Keith. Samuel had pushed Shiro too far in _something_ , and he’d lost Shiro as a result. Shiro wasn’t a pliable man, nor one disposed to cruelty. Whatever Samuel had done, it’d been harsh. But not to himself.

There were miles of parking lot, largely underground, beneath the stadium. It took Samuel flashing his pass to get them in. Before, the guards had asked for fees; now, they shepherded the SUV through the underground, toward a guarded gate beyond which waited a dozen expensive vehicles and a gleaming elevator.

“The elevator was a good idea,” Samuel said as they parked beside it. “I wasn’t sold when you proposed it, but you know how many people are thrilled to just rocket up to their premium seats? It’s incredible. They’ll zoom up, load themselves with food, and watch from the rooms. I know some people pay extra just for the elevator’s convenience.”

Keith frowned. “Nobody else gets an elevator?”

Samuel waved a hand. “No, no, no--they do! They just gotta share it with the rest of New York. Which, let me tell you, is a punishment of its own. People will try to squeeze in at every angle. I took it once when this one broke down. Let me tell you, I had this one fixed the day it broke. I wasn’t going to take the public one on a night where Selene Winters is playing.”

The ride up through the stadium’s levels went quickly. Visions of other floors--some crowded with people, others looking at the greenery, one even a behind-the-scenes glimpse of a kitchen--flashed by. Samuel fiddled with his phone as he spoke.

“The mayor, governor, celebrities, the cream of the business world--they all come here.” Samuel grinned as he typed out a text. “Nothing else around here is as new. The Garden’s falling apart, Yankee is a mudscape, but the Aran Coliseum is _everything_. We have state of the art fucking toilets! And every little sport and event comes here. My favourite one is when we turn the grass into ice for skating competitions. Not that I don’t mind the fighting rings. It’s a rush to get the crowd congregated around a ring, the open air full of howls.”

Keith’s frown deepened. “You like the bloodlust.”

“And you don’t?” Samuel leaned forward. Despite his shortness, he still seemed to look down his nose at Keith. “You’re a made man. You’re carrying a gun right this moment, and I know you can use it. Don’t be pointin’ fingers ‘bout things you agree with. I’m sure if Takashi was in a fighting ring, you’d get hot and bothered.”

“I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with that--”

Samuel shook his head. “Obsessed? Never. Amused? Yes. You don’t know a thing about my boy except for what he looks like naked. The things I could tell you!” Shiro stiffened, his eyes pinned to the glass. “Maybe I will after we get pretzels.” The elevator door opened and they all left it behind.

The floor was an open area built into the stadium. It had an overhang that shielded spectators from the rain while there was no glass to obscure the view. They were higher than the public’s seats--high enough where no troublemakers could scale into the plush seats, invade the open bar, or consume the buffet. A variety of foods were available, even when games and shows weren’t playing.

Samuel grabbed a fresh pretzel coated in cinnamon, sugar, and chocolate. One of his bodyguards picked up a glass of lemonade to go with it. Keith tried not to stare at the six foot five behemoth hovering over Samuel’s five foot four frame, a glass in hand as Samuel picked apart his pretzel. Grains of sugar and cinnamon fell to the otherwise spotless floor.

“Take a look at what Wyatt has wrought.” Samuel nodded at the open field. “You might be a thug, Takashi, but you’ve an eye for beauty.” His eyes alighted on Keith. “In many ways.”

The stadium was different than any Keith had been in. Its walls went high, curving inward at the top in balconies. It reminded him of aged paper--but the colours weren’t the gun-steel and black of most modern construction. Shiro had chosen brilliant reds and a pure white. Even the green field had been sprayed red. When Samuel saw him gaping at the field of saffron, he laughed.

“It’s for when the field isn’t in use,” he said brightly. “It’s not really red--it’s a trick of the lights.” He pointed his pretzel at a series of spotlights scattered around the curling walls. They hung high over stands that could hold several hundred thousand people.

As a concession to that number, there were screens here and there. While from the floor they were on the view was open to the performance, there were also TVs along the sleek room’s walls. Keith asked what seemed to him the obvious question.

“How do you play something like baseball or football in a field this big?” he asked. “There’d be so much space wasted, and nobody would get a good view.”

“Clever, clever!” Samuel went to the open window. “This is where Takashi really went wild. Some of the ground? It _folds_. Goes right down into the basement, just above the parking lot. The rest of the stadium moves in--you see how it all curls? It can curl more, bringing up seats that the new stadium doesn’t have room for. It’s multi-purpose. The best nights are when we’re all snug, pressed together like rats, watching two people kill each other.” His eyes glinted. “I think the architect wanted to kill you when you suggested it, Takashi.”

Shiro laughed softly, the sound exhausted. “You threatened him, Samuel.”

“I did.” Samuel sounded unbothered, unlike Shiro. “He thought it’d be a hazard. It’s been operational for five years, and not a thing’s happened. The man just needed a little push to sack up.”

“No, he didn’t.” Shiro turned to Samuel, tearing his gaze away from the field. The sunlight washed out the lights, turning them a pale, watery blood-red. “He didn’t need to do _anything_. The stadium would have been fine if you’d just let things be--”

“Let things be?” Samuel blinked owlishly. “I’d hired him, Takashi. He was supposed to do what I wanted, and I wanted what you’d suggested. Putting a knife to his wife’s throat wasn’t _pleasant_ , but he’d made it necessary.”

Shiro’s hands fisted. “And the kids?”

“Collateral,” Samuel said. “I gave him enough money for a therapist or two. If he’d played it smart, nothing would have happened to them.”

Kids had been one of the rules. Shiro kept glancing at Keith, as though desperate for some sort of sign. But Keith didn’t have anything. To be angry at Shiro made him a hypocrite. He’d fucked up children’s lives before. But this--it didn’t sound like desperation. It sounded like Samuel had wanted something, and the children had been in the way. Children were not meant to be in the way.

“ _You_ happened to them.” Fury turned Shiro’s words to a hiss. “Did you ever kill the woman who did it, or did you protect her?”

Samuel’s face turned cold and blank. “I did what was necessary, Takashi. You know that. I’m not a man to cause unnecessary hurt. Hell, I like kids--”

“Not enough to stop your thugs from almost killing two. How long were they in the hospital?”

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Still crying tears over them? It was a little cut. Roxanne got a bit excited and over-eager. She was new, Takashi. Should I have sent her along? Probably not. Live and learn. We all make mistakes. I thought we’d cleared the air on this long ago. Is this why you left? Really?”

“I left,” Shiro said, “because it wasn’t just one mistake. It wasn’t just a kid in the hospital, or parents brutalized in front of them. You--you don’t have _class_. Or standards.”

Samuel looked stricken. Pretzel dust sprinkled his polished shoes. “That’s a damned lie. Jake, Mark--I’ve got class, don’t I?” The men murmured platitudes. It didn’t soothe Samuel, who turned to look up at Shiro. Annoyance had filtered on to his face. “One mistake, and you’re like this. You’re ungrateful. To think you’re in charge of anything! I let you build this stadium, let you have _fun_ with it, and you leave because someone got a little knife-happy. If you’d wanted to, you could have just apologized to the family and visited the kids in hospital.”

“No,” Shiro said, “because I was part of the group that almost killed their children. We ruined their lives. _Nothing_ we could do would make that better.”

“... Well.” Samuel picked at his pretzel again. “Good to know how you feel. But Mr. Wyatt finished the stadium, and last I heard, he’s doing just fine for himself in Germany. You can hold a grudge and play the victim, but Wyatt hasn’t. Move on, Takashi.”

“I can’t.” His voice cracked. “That’s why I left, Sam. It shouldn’t have happened, but I didn’t stop you until it was too late.” Shiro pulled back, swallowing down his misery. “It’s done. You’re right about that. I don’t--I wouldn’t have come back if I hadn’t needed to. This entire place is built on the awful shit we’ve done to other people. You wouldn’t have been able to finance it without threatening a dozen people and hurting two dozen more.”

Samuel snorted. “You think Althea is better? What about the stuff I heard about you in Miami?”

Shiro shook his head. “Althea has standards. It’s business to them. Miami--Miami was a mistake too.”

“You’re full of ‘em, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Samuel started. He’d obviously expected a denial. “Thank you for negotiating with me, Sam. But I think we need to leave. We’ll be in touch about the shipments.”

Samuel said nothing. He stared at Shiro as the man left the room. His mutilated pretzel rested in his palm. Keith moved to follow, and Samuel spoke. “You deserve better than him, lad. What’s your name?”

He stopped by the elevator, right in front of Shiro. Shiro’s dark eyes begged him to say nothing. Samuel waited. Keith remembered Shiro’s description of Samuel--of Fay. Silver tongued, clever, pushy, manipulative. Keith imagined Shiro meeting him as an upstart. It would have been in the fighting rings, he thought. Shiro would be desperate to escape a boring upper class life, and that escape took the form of fists.

Samuel would have been impressed. He appreciated savagery. It was only a problem when it conflicted with his goals. But Shiro hadn’t been in conflict with Samuel, not yet. Shiro had been an opportunity, something to be groomed and moulded to something great. A protege for the ages--a protégé who’d built Samuel the world’s finest crown after years of service.

How hard had Shiro worked? Who had Samuel hurt to push the project along, faster and faster, until the very person helping him build it said no? Wyatt and his family had become obstacles for Samuel. Stones on a road that troubled his horse’s hooves. So he’d dealt with it the only way he knew how: savagery.

But Shiro hadn’t been raised for low-class savagery. He’d been raised with fine foods, excellent schools, and a loving family. The world he’d entered had been exciting and foreign. But it’d had rules he hadn’t understood until too late. Shiro was, in his own way, innocent. Samuel had taken that away.

How much of the story Keith had told himself was true? Maybe Shiro had watched Roxanne take a knife to the child. Maybe he’d broken Wyatt’s legs. But Keith looked into Shiro’s eyes and saw so much agony that he believed Shiro had never meant for it to happen. Samuel was a monster, one that Shiro was intimately familiar with, and coming back to New York terrified him in the way a rabbit was terrified of a fox. The entire time, Samuel had been hunting for him, searching for weaknesses.

Keith was a weakness. Samuel would find out Keith’s name eventually, but not now. Not where Shiro could be manipulated by it. He stepped into the elevator. Samuel lunged after them, but Shiro had hit the button already. In a swift hiss, the door sealed them from Samuel’s pounding fists. The machine sucked them down, into the belly of Aran Coliseum. Keith said nothing. He only drew his gun and waited.

When the elevator stopped, though, none of the Coliseum’s security stopped them. They watched him and Shiro walk to their SUV. When Shiro opened the door, a few people jerked forward, as though to stop him, but Keith let the light glint off the barrel of his gun.

Nothing stopped them as they drove from Aran. Nobody attacked them as they wove through New York’s streets. Neither of them spoke, though Keith saw Shiro’s hands shake and his knuckles turn bone-white. Keith thought he should say something. He didn’t know what to say, though. There wasn’t any comfort between them, and Keith wondered if there ever would be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is the 15th!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus! Real life got in the way. I'll be updating every two days from here on out. ;3

The south burned. Heavy summer heat lay over the land like oil. There were no breezes to give relief; there were few rivers that did anything but trickle. They stopped at one in Maryland and tried to breathe through the humid air. Washington was only a short jaunt away--but it was off the track. They’d already taken time through Pennsylvania. Shiro had stopped driving. It was Keith’s turn, but Keith suspected too that Shiro was being smothered in his thoughts.

They hadn’t talked about New York. Not about the kids, not about Samuel, and certainly not about the Coliseum. Keith didn’t know how to bring it up. Should he even do that? He was, at that moment, the only person on the planet who Shiro could talk to. Olivia and Asahi didn’t know what Shiro really did. The rest of the Lions were scattered along the western seaboard. Allura was… God knew where. Shiro’s options were Keith, Keith, and any rocks they encountered.

Keith suspected he’d prefer Shiro talk to the rocks. Keith didn’t know what to say about what he’d heard. New York had been a mess--more of a disaster than Clarence, which surprised him more than anything. He’d assumed their roles would be reversed as they inched through the central states. Now, though, they waited in silence as the drive continued.

The best Keith could do was buy him something to eat at the next Cook Out. Shiro bought a monstrous-sized chocolate nut milkshake with two burgers. Keith went with a watermelon shake, just for the hell of it, and picked up a BBQ plate. Shiro stole more hushpuppies than he’d ever admit.

What was the South? It was a hundred slasher films and a dozen inspiration porn movies, but not really. Keith called some of the places they drove through ‘The Hills Have Eyes’, but it wasn’t like that. People puttered through dusty streets between white-washed houses. American flags hung from every flagpole, roof, and porch. It was an obnoxious love--an unashamed one that he found himself fond of. He’d never be able to espouse that kind of whole-hearted and untroubled affection for anything.

The diners they stopped at were one of two types. Either everyone stared at the pair of well-dressed if harried Asians, or they were ignored completely. Keith had thought it had something to do with the size of the town, but it really didn’t. What mattered more was how much traffic came through. It wasn’t any different than the southwest, really.

Except for the love of butter. Keith felt like his arteries wailed in pain every time they stopped at one of those ‘home-cooked’ meal places. They were better than McDonald’s, he suspected, but he always felt like he needed to be carried back to the SUV, and Shiro looked the same.

The South was food, roads, and old buildings that were either well-kept and shown for the world to see, or dilapidated shacks. There was very little in between--unless they were new residential buildings, which looked a little too familiar for Keith’s tastes. Suburbia was suburbia, no matter where you went, and they’d gone far. Through Maryland, to Virginia, then to the Carolinas. Keith swore he gained pounds over the twenty hours they drove. He didn’t mind it. It was better than the barren nothing of Arizona, or the unending plains of Oklahoma. The South had personality, and it had people.

Those two things were good for the soul, particularly when his only companion had zero interest in talking. A gloomy cloud hung above Shiro’s head, and the noose around his neck seemed to tighten whenever Keith tried to speak to him. Shiro would look away or suddenly dig out more food he’d stashed away in the backseat. The logic seemed to be that, if he had enough pretzels crammed in his mouth, Keith had to be polite and drop the conversation.

It was petty. It was stupid. It was utterly  _ Shiro _ , and Keith didn’t know why he indulged it. He could reach over and yank the Cracker Jack bag from his hands and force them to talk about New York. But every time that thought came, a wave of discomfort followed. Why do that when he could pretend everything was fine? It was easier to ask for the peanuts in the bag and shove them in his mouth, eyes glued to the road.

They were full-grown men. Shiro was in his early thirties; Keith was in his late, late twenties. They worked, paid rent--at least theoretically, since Allura wasn’t coming by to collect anything--and fed themselves. Talking about emotional stuff was supposed to be a natural facet of living. Sure, it had…  _ connotations _ , but that didn’t exempt them from it. Adults spoke about adult things. Yet when Keith opened his mouth to ask a question and Shiro pointed out a sign for a dairy bar, Keith let himself be distracted.

They didn’t get to stop by Charleston. They did get to visit Savannah, but didn’t have time to drive around for long. They saw a pretty fountain, dozens of stores with cloth awnings, and street after street of cobblestone in the historic district. Outside of that district, it got a bit janky, but even that had its charm. They were right by the ocean, after all.

They grabbed a coffee on a cafe’s patio. Shiro didn’t have room to eat, or at that’s what he said. Keith could believe it, though. Shiro had gorged himself in hopes of prolonging the inevitable conversation. But he’d just admitted weakness now, and Keith didn’t know what to do about that. Shiro stirred his black coffee. He hadn’t added anything to it; he rarely did. 

“You look like you should be dipped into the ocean a few times,” Keith said. “You’re already wrung out, though.”

“What?” Shiro blinked at him.

The thoughts were more engrossing than Keith had expected. “I’m saying you need a shower. Heh, I do too. But it seems you’ve got bigger things on your mind. Care to share, or is there only room for one?”

It was almost too blunt. Keith didn’t know how to dance around things, poking and prodding and checking for signs of weakness. Should he take it back? But that was equally uncharacteristic. It’d make him look like a coward and idiot. No, the best thing to do was stir his own coffee and wait. Maybe the awkwardness would take down the barriers Shiro had erected.

The walls didn’t collapse. Shiro shifted in his seat, wincing as his body adjusted to movements that weren’t sitting. “... You heard what he said, Keith. There isn’t much more to it than that.”

“If I listened to anyone but us two,” Keith said, “I’d have gone back to Josiah. What happened? You don’t need to tell me now--I don’t think passing people want to hear about it--but I want to know. I swear to God, Shiro, I won’t think less of you. If I did, I’d be a hypocrite.”

“None of your past’s kids almost  _ died _ , Keith.”

Keith forced himself to shrug. “Almost, Shiro. I knew the family too. You didn’t. Which is worse, and why does it matter?” He used his spoon to point at Shiro’s scattered meal. “Eat. We’re almost in Florida, and I’m not getting out into the heat unless I absolutely have to.”

When they returned to the car, it was in a dead, awkward silence. Keith almost resigned himself to another discussion, this time through the drive through five hours down the coast, but Shiro spoke as Savannah faded behind them.

“I knew what we were going there for.” Keith blinked and froze, his grip on the wheel like a vise. “I didn’t know how bad it would go, though. It was supposed to be a quick reminder of who Wyatt worked for. It’s routine. You know that. We go to the place, wave a knife or flash a gun, and they get back in line. Easy. Simple.”

Keith frowned at the roads ahead. “The most straightforward thing we do, yeah.”

Shiro released a bark of laughter. “It should have been. God, I don’t know why it wasn’t except for Roxanne. She had a trigger-finger, but she’d never done anything really stupid. Samuel thought she had potential to be a real vicious bitch. She just needed someone to hold the leash now and then.”

“And that was going to be you.”

“It was.” Shiro stared ahead at the vanishing road. “I was young, but I had people’s respect. We thought that if I was there, Roxanne would behave. And Wyatt--Wyatt was  _ easy _ . All she needed to do was loom at the door and give a crazy grin if anyone looked at her. I didn’t know she’d brought a knife.” Shiro laughed again, softer this time. “I knew she had a gun, but that would have worried me less than a knife.”

Keith chewed the inside of his cheek. “... She had a reputation, then? With knives?”

“She carved up a cop once--cut off his nose and an ear. It was a mess to fix, but we fixed it. Roxanne said she’d learned.”

“She didn’t.”

Shiro sighed. “She hadn’t learned a thing. I was talking to Wyatt, just reminding him of the agreement we’d had, and how much influence Mr. Fay had over New York City, and then someone screamed. Jagged like shattered glass, and wet. There were three people with me--Roxanne, Vincent, and Reeves. Vincent was at the door; Reeves was at my side. Vincent was meant to keep Roxanne with him.”

He hadn’t, evidently. Keith didn’t say that. Shiro continued, the words rushing from his lips like they’d ached to break free for years. “Roxanne said she’d wanted to inspect the house, see if Wyatt was playing two sides. She kept talking about potential wires, but we knew the place was clean. The kids had been sent upstairs, but two of them had crept down. They were  _ kids _ . They were curious and didn’t have the sense to stay away.”

“And she found them.”

“She thought she could threaten them--get some information, or scare the Wyatts more. There were rules about this, Keith. I didn’t write them, but I sure as hell followed them. Just like anyone else with an ounce of sense.” Shiro rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. There were no signs of tears: only exhaustion. “She pulled a knife. The older kid jumped in front of her sister, and Roxanne knifed her in the gut. As though a sixty pound kid was any sort of threat. The younger girl tried to help her sister. Roxanne just stabbed her too.”

Keith hoped someone had killed Roxanne. A mad dog needed to be put down. In the delicately balanced underworld, there wasn’t room for chaotic variables. “The kids lived.”

“Not from anything Roxanne did. She went into shock. I ended up having to do first aid while the Wyatts screamed. Reeves got Roxanne out; Vincent called 911. We barely covered it up. I think the only reason Wyatt kept building the Coliseum was that he was afraid of what we’d do to his kids if he stopped. Which wasn’t what I was there for. I didn’t  _ want _ to hurt kids.” Shiro fell back against his seat. “His kneecaps? Burning down his house? I could do that. Killing kids, though, that’s something else. Samuel just shipped Roxanne to another handler. I don’t know what she’s doing now if she’s not dead. I left as soon as I could.”

Dead, gone, or still hiding out among Fay’s rabble? Keith couldn’t even guess which. “Don’t blame you. Fay just let her stay?”

“He said it was a rookie mistake and that he’d take care of it.” Shiro’s expression darkened. “He’s not good at understanding when too far is too far, but I thought he might do something this time. The kids were in the hospital for a month. Roxanne’s name didn’t even appear in the police report. The coverup made some people thought the Wyatts had hurt their kids.” Shiro shook his head. “That faded, but it never should have happened. Roxanne should have been killed, or at least blacklisted. I haven’t heard about any big messes from Samuel’s organization, but then he’s always been determined to cover mistakes up.”

Keith adjusted the dash mirror. “... Hurts the image to have people know about someone like Roxanne. He’s a mad bastard, from what I saw, but I don’t think he’d just let her wander around, knife in hand. She probably got put into administrative work.” He  _ hoped _ , at least.

Shiro shook his head, weariness weighing on his shoulders. “You have more faith in him than I do.”  _ You know him less than I do _ went unsaid. “Miami will be better. It was better. Just don’t talk about Fay to any of them. They don’t know what happened.”

Keith doubted that. Shiro would have been a sudden presence in town, and questions would always be asked, especially with Shiro’s credentials. ‘Why did you leave?’ would have been demanded a hundred times before the week was out. Keith had done it to enough people before to know that. So what had Shiro said?

He didn’t ask. Shiro was scraped raw, shuddering as his breaths hitched. They weren’t tears, but it was panic. He said Miami was better. Was that a lie, or was it only slightly less ugly? God knows, he thought, it was easy to clear the ground level New York City had put them at.

The ride took them down the Atlantic coastline. Their stops dwindled. Shiro retreated, not suddenly but by inches. His gaze turned from the roads ahead and Keith’s profile to the grass and sleepy trees clustered together. The A/C wheezed, desperate to keep the interior some facsimile of cool, but the heat of Florida was wet and seeping. The windows beaded with condensation. The miles stretched for centuries.

Keith had never been to Miami. He’d seen the glitzy pictures of wealthy lives on beaches and expensive hotels. Cubano music filled clubs, and the sleek chrome modernity of New Meridian had never taken root. Everything was still bright and airy, like a city whose party never ended. Its underbelly thrived like the rot of a log’s underside. Keith ached to ask for detail on Calzada, but Shiro was still as a statue, and Keith didn’t know what to make of that. All he did was ask for directions as they wove their way down the coast, through Jackson, and then, finally, to Miami.

He gave in at a gas station. “You said that Calzada had ties up and down the coasts.” Keith frowned as his brows furrowed. “Would that have something to do with shipments from the south?”

‘The south’ was a kind way of phrasing South America. The Empire could compound their own drugs and experiment as they pleased, but most operations ended up out of the country. It was easier to pay off rural authorities in Bolivia than it was to make a crack lab in Miami. With the right connections, it could be made for cheaper and shipped for even less.

Shiro shifted in his seat. It was the first movement since they’d passed Orlando’s longitude. “... Calzada’s got ties to most cartels. He wasn’t born to any of them, but he’s got a good ability to charm. Not Samuel’s charm--Samuel’s a psychopath. Calzada’s too smooth to talk like Sam. He isn’t any less dangerous. I want you to remember that. Calzada’s going to lay it on thick, and he’ll expect you to be a rube. He assumes anyone who isn’t from the East Coast is a dull thug.”

Considering Keith had come from an Arizona biker gang, Calzada wouldn’t be wrong in Keith’s case. But time in New Meridian and Los Angeles had smoothed out his rough edges in surprising ways. Still, Keith tried not to gawk as they drove through Miami. Shiro still remembered the streets and blocks like he’d never left. He guided them straight to the downtown.

People weren’t partying yet. It was the evening, but the sun was still up, glinting off windows and steel. People crowded cafes, drinking their fill of coffee after a day of work in preparation for a night on the town. A trio of women huddled around a table, their hair fluttering in the wind. One kept pointing insistently at the menu while the others lounged. None of them were aware of how the currents of Miami would change with Shiro’s arrival. How much of the city did Calzada own? He couldn’t have it all, if only because Keith would have known his name. It was enough, though, that he’d have the pull to change things on the other end of the country. 

“How are we going to him?” Keith asked as they checked in at a ritzy boutique hotel. The place was themed around famous beaches. Shiro had booked the Reynisfjara Black Sand Beach room. It was dark as night, and Keith knew the polished surfaces and unending black would would grate by the end of the night.

Parking was murder. Keith joked that it was almost as expensive as the hotel, but Shiro was too busy brooding to remark on it. Calzada consumed him. It was more than the man deserved, and Keith didn’t even know him. When he tried to distract Shiro with food, it didn’t work either. The typical ravenous appetite had withered to a sullen stare and quick shakes of the head. 

Which was great. Awesome. Thrilling, in fact. It’d made the ride to Miami tortuous, and now he found himself stuck at a tapas restaurant full of yuppies and hipsters without even Shiro’s company. Had he been this miserable on the drive to Arizona? He refused to believe that. He’d brooded, but there was brooding and then there was whatever Shiro was doing. It was like he was in mourning. 

“Calzada isn’t going to knife you on sight,” Keith murmured as he nudged Shiro’s plate towards the man. “He’s going to wonder why you left, sure, but you said he’s charming. Charming people don’t knife people without at least a hello first.” It was one of the biggest drawbacks of being charming. As a tactic, it had its benefits, but Keith had always found it easier to stab people as needed and forget the niceties. He  _ was _ still from a biker gang, after all.

Shiro nudged around his gambas. “It’s not the knife I’m worried about--”

“You said Fay was worse. I didn’t care. So what are you nervous about here?”

Shiro shook his head. “Not here. Later.”

‘Later’ was in a taxi as the driver wove between lanes in an unending maze. “We’re going to him, I take it,” Keith said.

Shiro shifted. “It’s better we go to him before he finds out we’re here and haven’t said anything.”

“Yeah, but what’s he going to say?” Keith turned to face Shiro. He pinned him with a scrutinizing look. “You’ve been dancing around this. I don’t like that. Makes me suspicious. So tell me what’s wrong with Calzada.”

“... Nothing’s  _ wrong _ .”

Keith almost slapped a hand to his face. “You haven’t been as bad as New York, but you’ve been weird, Shiro. Just tell me so I can go in prepared.” I wasn’t for Samuel, he thought, and that’d caused problems. But that was manipulative, and he didn’t care to be manipulative. “I swear to fucking God, Shiro, you’re not going to make me mad by being honest. I prefer honesty to whatever  _ this _ is.”

If he was flattering, it was brooding confusion. If he was blunt, it was sulking wariness. He’d prefer not to tell Shiro what he thought of it. 

Shiro stared out, refusing to meet Keith’s gaze. “I had a relationship with Calzada.”

Keith jerked back. His face twisted, torn between shock and puzzlement. “Shiro, I--” He shook his head. “Shiro, I figured a guy like you wasn’t exactly a virgin when we hooked up.” He rubbed his fingers together, out of sight, as he sighed. “Unless you married him, I don’t care.” He wanted to ask why Shiro had even thought he’d be bothered, but that sounded accusatory. “Is that what’s made you moody for the entire drive?”

“Maybe.” Shiro’s gaze slid over Keith and the seats, back to his window. “... We didn’t marry.”

Keith didn’t know what to make of that specific phrase. Keith had already guessed they hadn’t married--otherwise, Shiro wouldn’t have left for New Meridian or fucked Keith. So why mention it? Was Keith being paranoid? He thought he might be being paranoid, but the entire trip east had been one awful surprise after another. 

Keith had thought he’d ‘win’ at the most fucked up past. Shiro’s had come out of the gate at a sprint, though. 

“Good to know,” Keith said. He swallowed and stomped down on his unease. “Was it friendly, or was going to New Meridian a way to get away from him?”

Shiro’s shifting returned. “It was--” He sighed. “It wasn’t amicable, if that’s what you mean. He got possessive. I wasn’t one of his top enforcers anymore: I was his lover first. I didn’t get involved in this world so I could be taken to dinners. You understand that.” Shiro looked out the window gloomily. “I think that’s why it works.”

‘It’ being them. Keith wasn’t so sure they worked, not like Shiro seemed to be. They were tangled in secrets and in a transient life that could end in death within seconds. It wasn’t a foundation for a family. But did Keith want a family? Not really. Did Shiro? Keith couldn’t even answer that. After years with Shiro, he should have been able to. Instead, Keith knew how Shiro liked to care for his guns, what his workout routine was, even the way he liked his cigars.

Family? Values? Hell, even something like religion? That wasn’t on his radar. Like a wasp’s sting, he suddenly wondered if Calzada knew. Wondering only set him up for more problems, though. Shiro didn’t lie or evade him. The questions were never asked, so they were never answered. Delving into personal histories wasn’t necessary when they could sit in a comfortable quiet, watching the rain fall on a darkened city.

That was peace, he thought. The rain would patter against the balcony’s flooring, and sometimes there were puddles in the morning, but while it happened, they’d have the door open and a clear view out into the tumultuous sea. Roiling waves splashed white flecks over docks and ships; creaking lampposts shone brilliant light on the spray, sending out fractals of snow white.

That was better than knowing whether Shiro believed in God or his opinion on public education. If they lasted, Keith might find those out in due time. But when he could breathe alongside Shiro and not be tense, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Shiro.

He told himself that as they drove through traffic down to the beach. The cabbie said nothing--either he’d read the mood or listened in. Keith tried to tamp down on his annoyance. Shiro was worried he’d be jealous. Keith liked to think he hadn’t given reason for Shiro to think that, but reacting like a child would only confirm Shiro’s worries. Keith had always assumed someone else had got their hands on Shiro’s dick at some point: when you looked like Shiro did, it was hard to find people who  _ didn’t _ want to bang you. It sometimes annoyed Keith to have baristas and delivery drivers ogling Shiro, but that was less possessive and more about it being an inconvenience. When Keith wanted his macchiato, he didn’t want to wait a short eternity as the barista tried to catch herself a well-dressed sugar daddy.

Calzada’s home was on Belle Meade Island. While the front was palm trees and well-tended grass, Keith caught a glimpse of docks and boats behind it, leading out into the warm waters. A small brown fence encased a series of glassy squares that built an open visible world. In that world, dozens of well-dressed and made men held flutes of champagne and pretended they weren’t armed to the teeth.

“He likes to show off, doesn’t he?” Keith said.

Shiro grimaced. “To put it kindly. Don’t scuff anything or sit without him telling you to. He’s not a complete nut, but he’s…  _ unreasonable _ to put it lightly.”

It wasn’t Calzada who answered the door. It was a weedy man with buggy green eyes and an upturned nose that reached for the clouds above them. The man’s lips pursed as he looked over Keith, then Shiro.

“The fuck are you?” the man said.

Shiro looked over the man. “I could ask the same. But tell Calzada Takashi’s back.” 

The name sounded so unnatural to Keith’s ears. Takashi wasn’t what anyone on the West Coast called him--likely by Shiro’s design. Keith didn’t know what to make of it. Should he call Shiro Takashi? Was he allowed to? But most importantly--did he want to? Because to Fay and Calzada, Shiro wasn’t Shiro. He was Takashi. The name belonged to two people that Shiro seemed to dread and despise by turns. If Keith started calling Shiro Takashi--or asked to call Shiro Takashi--what can of worms would he be opening up?

No, he thought as the weedy man grudgingly vanished into the maze of mirrors and windows, it was best that Shiro remain Shiro. Keith straightened and pushed his shoulders back. If he was going to meet Calzada, the relationship drama would start. And if it was going to start, Keith would need to end it as soon as possible. The less Calzada said, the better.

The weedy man returned, his sallow skin ashen. He said little as he directed them into the house. The floors gleamed, the pine still carrying the lingering scent of construction and the forest. There were few walls and corridors to lead them through; instead, entire walls of glass and mirrors created a kaleidoscoping effect. There were fewer walls than there appeared, but his brain insisted that there were dozens.

All the while, everything looked out at or reflected the ocean. The azure rippled under a gentle breeze, while airy white boats sailed over waves. A dozen sailboats caught the breeze, turning it into a lazy walk across the horizon. Keith found his eyes drawn to the scene again and again. The sleek white furniture and modern fixtures were less notable than leaves on a tree.

All around them, people watched. A few recognized Shiro. Others’ expressions were torn with confusion. In the middle of the top-most room, after two flights of stairs, Keith finally saw who he knew, instantly, was Calzada. 

He was striking. Not handsome, but striking. He had a hatchet face from which peered out a pair of owlish eyes. His jawline was like cut obsidian, while his chin was too pointy to be attractive. It looked like a mining pick jutted from his face. A widow’s peak crowned his forehead, above bushy brows, and his head of black hair stuck out at every angle. Hair gel had been poured on to it, but nothing could save it from disaster.

“Takashi,” Calzada said. His voice carried a summer’s warmth. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it out of New Meridian.”

Keith hung back, letting Shiro take centre stage. The less Calzada knew about his and Shiro’s relationship, the better. Calzada didn’t move to meet Shiro--but he watched him with a keen gaze that picked apart the ragged suit and dark circles. 

When Shiro spoke, his voice sounded weary and resigned. “It was close.” Words seemed to abandon him, but he pushed on. “We should talk in private, Rafael.”

“Going to negotiate?” Calzada sounded thoughtful. “We can do that. You won’t get much of anything, but we can talk. No one follow us to the back. I see any of you trying to check on me, and I’ll drown you in the pool.”

It was a teasing threat. Would Calzada follow through? Keith thought he read unease on the soldiers’ faces, but that could have been any number of things. They went to a section of the window-walls. There, Calzada opened a door Keith hadn’t known was there. Down, along blue-tiled steps, there was a pool pressed against the house’s lower floors, surrounded by the tile. And at the edge of the tile, towards the ocean, a dock stretched out. Two boats were tied up; one was a small sailboat that looked unused, while the other was a shining speedboat.

Calzada walked to the pool and stretched in the waning sun’s light. The motion reminded Keith of tom cats. “We could go into the pool,” Calzada said, “but I’m not interested in breaking out the champagne for your tag-along. What did you come to bargain with, Takashi? Don’t say old memories. They’re not fond anymore, and I confess I’m still annoyed with you. The least you could have done was make a scene as you left. Instead you slunk out of Miami like a guilty dog.”

“I know you like drama, but I don’t. You knew that.” Shiro looked out at the ocean. Keith went to the side, towards the pool. He pressed his back against tile and waited. “If you wanted someone to throw their drink on you and give you a slap, I’m not that much of a queen.”

Calzada sighed. “You weren’t. Tell me, are you still mad about what I asked from you?”

“You wanted me to be kept.” Shiro’s voice took on an edge. “That’s why I left.” 

Calzada was tall and wiry. He rivalled Shiro in height, but Shiro was easily twice his width. If Calzada had wanted to turn Shiro into a kept man, he’d tried it more through force of personality than anything else. Keith tried to ignore the sour taste that flooded his mouth. Still, he said nothing. 

“You’re too handsome to die a made man’s death, Takashi.” Calzada’s dark eyes considered Shiro--his clothed stomach, his muscled arms, and then his sculpted face. “If I could have put you in a museum, I would have. Is it really such an offense to admire your work?”

Shiro reached up and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t a work of art, Rafael--”

“To me it was.” Calzada didn’t sound angry. He turned to the ocean, a slouch curling his spine. “You’ve fucked other people since you left. I know that. I’d offer you a spot back in Miami, but you won’t take it. You’re convinced that I want to be your captor, when all I want to be is your protector.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Shiro shook his head. “I’ve done well enough on my own. You knew me when I was 23. Things have changed. I’m here to ask for help--not with your usual strings, not so you can lock me away from the things I want. So you can either negotiate, or I can head back west.”

Calzada smiled. It wasn’t Fay’s Cheshire smile or Josiah’s brittle one. Calzada was smooth and poised, like Shiro wasn’t a step from snapping at him. “With him?” Calzada said.

Shiro glanced at Keith like he’d forgotten Keith was there. “He’s a lieutenant, so yes.”

“Just a lieutenant? So it’s just chance that two pretty faces escaped the slaughter?” Calzada’s smile stretched thin. “You took him purposefully, or he was there with you when the Kingdom was destroyed. Honesty, Takashi, or I’ll walk away.”

Shiro’s fists tightened at his sides. Keith pushed off from the wall to join Shiro. Words tangled in Shiro’s throat; Keith watched his Adam’s apple bob, and that made the choice for him. Keith spoke carefully, slowly, with a drawl that was less accent and more arrogance.

“And what does it matter,” Keith said, “since this is business? We’re here to negotiate, not play out a soap.” Even if Keith felt like he was suddenly starring in one as the mistress. He understood, deeply, why Shiro had left in the night. Calzada was too attached--more attached than reason dictated. Possessive, even among the underworld that thrived on protecting what belonged to them. “So the transaction. We want to take back New Meridian. What do you want--that isn’t Shiro?”

Calzada’s dark eyes picked Keith apart, and by the tilt of his lips, found Keith wanting. “I didn’t know you were into pricks, Shiro.”

“He’s blunt,” was the reply, “but he’s right. I’m here on business. Not to reminiscence.”

Calzada’s downturned lips sharpened. “Then you shouldn’t have come at all. I don’t give  _ freebies _ . Even to past lovers. You just wasted my time and yours. Does it make you happy, Shirogane, to come back and rip open old wounds? You made me a laughing stock, and betrayed me.”

Shiro flinched. Fire rose in Keith’s chest, lashing like a whip, like an angry cat’s tail. “He didn’t do shit to you. He left because the way you treat him is insane, Calzada. Anyone laughing at you was laughing at you for being obsessive--”

“I’ll kill you,” Calzada said, “and dump your body in the ocean. Nobody will know what happened to you, and nobody will care.” Keith’s mouth clacked shut. “You may have lured Takashi in, but I know what you are. You’re scum that bubbled up from some backwater or inept gang. You coasted on your pretty face, maybe fucked a leader or two on the downlow, and now you’ve latched on to Takashi. And Takashi--babe, I’m sorry for saying this--Takashi was always a sucker for a pretty face that looked up to him.”

From Takashi to Shirogane to babe. Keith’s entire body tensed. More was wrong with Calzada than he thought. He wondered, for a moment, if Lance had ever met him. Both were Cuban, and most people in the underworld knew their group’s underbelly. Calzada was a big name on the East Coast: Lance might have been sent to handle Calzada once or twice, his bosses relying on a shared background to grease the wheels.

If Lance  _ had _ met Calzada, it would have been a good idea to call him before they came. If nothing else, when Keith next met Lance, he’d deliver condolences if Lance had ever dealt with Calzada.

Calzada waited for him to reply. Keith started with a shrug; it inspired teeth grinding and a flexing cheek. Keith forced back a smirk. “I’m with Shiro,” Keith said quietly, “because we fit together. It’s been years, Calzada. Get over it, and start thinking as the leader you are. You’ve got the Kingdom on your doorstep, asking for help. Are you going to rob us blind in return for a bit of help, or are you going to pine after Shiro some more?”

“Shiro,” Calzada echoed. “ _ Shiro _ . Is that what you’re telling people to call you now?” Calzada’s expression turned slack and morose. “Did I really ruin your name to your ears, Ta--Shiro?”

“... It wasn’t just you.” Shiro shook his head. “This should be business. I don’t hate you, Rafael, but things didn’t work out. We both need to move on.”

“Haven’t you already?” Rafael eyed Keith. “But fine. Let’s negotiate. What do you want from me? It must be special, or you would never have come back to Miami.”

“I need you to shut down the Empire’s supply routes. Nothing goes in; nothing goes out.” Shiro’s voice had taken on his characteristic steel. “I know you have ties on the West Coast. Get the Tongs in Seattle to send some ships down.”

Calzada’s bushy brows rose. “You want a fucking  _ blockade _ ? What is this--1750?”

“It’s effective.” Shiro looked out at the ocean. “I know you’re in smuggling now. You’re too close to the ocean not to be. And I know you ship product from the north down south in return, just like you take shipments from the south. And since you’re in shipments for the Atlantic, you know everyone in the Pacific trade. You know  _ damn well _ what the Empire is shipping--and what they plan to do.”

“Do I?” Calzada’s chin jutted out. “They’re greedy. We all know that. But what does it matter? You think I can tell the Tongs to blockade anything? Takashi, I can’t even tell them when to wipe their own asses. It’d have been smarter to go to the Tongs. Your Empire boogeyman might have worked--might have even convinced them to set sail and take over the docks in New Meridian, like we’re the fucking… the fucking  _ British Navy _ \--”

Keith broke in. “You know they’ll take the Atlantic. There won’t be room for anyone else. We came to you because Shiro knows you, and he thought you’d be smart enough to see the problem. Which I think you do, but spite is making you stupid.”

“ _ Stupid _ ?” Calzada’s voice carried a growl. “Takashi, please tell me you didn’t pick him up for his smarts.”

Keith opened his mouth to snap back, but Shiro shook his head sharply. “He’s right, though. If it wasn’t me coming to you with this, your head would be in the game. The Empire is a threat. The Kingdom kept them in check. The Kingdom’s fallen, and you have connections to once again tie up the two in an unending fight. There won’t be any threats of expansion--which you know is coming, since you know there are powers behind both factions.”

“You admit it, then.”

Shiro shrugged. “I wouldn’t lie about this. You’d know it anyway. There are bigger forces than any gang behind the Kingdom and Empire, and if the Empire has its way, it’ll take over the entirety of the Pacific while spreading its product throughout the continent. Within five years, the Empire will own everything. They have that ability.”

“So I sic the Tong on the Empire and--what? What do you do while I’m spending capital on that?”

Keith’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. Shiro answered. “We fight back. But we need to stop reinforcements from coming through the docks, and if the docks are secured, we can take back some of our resources.”

“Hm.” Something shuttered in Calzada’s eyes. “... I could sell you to the Empire. Not even catch you, but sell your plan.”

Shiro gave a lopsided smile. “You know it’s not worth anything when it’s so obvious. The Empire’s waiting for us to attack through the docks.”

Calzada rolled his eyes. “Then I won’t bother to sell you, Takashi. But I have to ask--what do I get in return for doing this? I can’t sell you out, your group is in ruins, and you have no intention of returning to me. So what do you offer?”

“You wouldn’t take an I.O.U, would you?”

“Not a one.”

Shiro sighed. He glanced at Keith, a rueful look on his face. “I can’t negotiate parts of revenue with you. I don’t have that authority. But I can offer similar help in return--”

“With what? A shambling wreck of a gang?”

“Rafael.” Calzada’s mouth snapped shut, though his brows were still furrowed in frustration. “If we come back, we’re going to take  _ everything _ along the West Coast. The Kingdom works alongside the gangs it takes over, but we’re going to own everything in three years. You remember what I did when you brought me on? I’m going to do that again.”

Calzada shrunk back. “You couldn’t do that alone.  _ I _ was there for it. I helped you, and you needed me.”

Shiro gave a wry smile. “Maybe then,” he said. “But now? I’ve run half of New Meridian. I have thousands of soldiers. The Kingdom’s fallen, but we fell in Miami once too. I can get us up again--and I won’t be playing nice.”

“Do you ever?” Calzada shook his head. “If I do this and you lose, I’ll have a bullseye on my back. What guarantees do I have?”

“My history,” Shiro replied, “and the fact that I’m going back personally to New Meridian. The Empire’s destroyed the polite war we had, and that means I can take the gloves off.”

“Lot of talk, Takashi, but I’m not sure I’m buying what you’re selling.”

Shiro shrugged. “Fay’s in.” 

Calzada’s eyes brightened. “Oh? And how the fuck did you manage that?”

“Words.” Calzada laughed. It had a deep honey quality that would have been attractive if Keith hadn’t seen him be creepy earlier. “We negotiated, and we came to an arrangement like the one I’m offering you.” A lie, Keith thought. A damned lie that, if Calzada found out wasn’t true, he’d come barrelling up to New Meridian himself to deal with them.

Calzada smiled, oblivious to the trickery afoot. “You’re still as handsome as ever, and just as clever. You’re wasted in rainy New Meridian--and with your little pet there. You could stay in Miami, surrounded by sun and water, and you’d never have to worry about someone pulling a gun on you.”

Keith stiffened despite himself. He knew Shiro wouldn’t say yes--had said no several times--but Miami  _ was _ safer than New Meridian. Shiro could live like a pampered king in forever-bliss. But Shiro once again shook his head.

“No, Rafael,” he said gently. “Take the deal or refuse. I’m going back to New Meridian either way.”

Calzada sighed, shaking his head. “... I’ll get the Tongs involved. Only because it’s you asking, Takashi. I don’t know what spell you cast on me, but I feel like I’d follow you to Hell. Give me a day to get them down to New Meridian’s docks for, and it’ll be done.”

That wasn’t the end. It’d have been too neat for it to be the end. Calzada pulled them into the little dinner party slash drinking binge he had going on in his house. Shiro was handed alcohol--champagne, rosé, expensive whites, and even sake, the final ass-kiss that Shiro pretended not to notice. Keith absorbed some of the barrage. It would have been impolite to turn it away. But every time Shiro took a sip or two and put his drink down for Keith to collect and finish, he was soon given a new glass.

In desperation, Keith found himself dumping the drinks in the pots of poor plants. The sun continued to set, though in the glass building, they were sealed away from the cooling air or mosquitos. None of Calzada’s soldiers were allowed to talk to Shiro without Calzada there. Keith ached to check his watch. The sooner they got out, the faster they could speed off toward New Meridian. They had two days left. It’d take a day just to gather all their tools. Taking the SUV wasn’t an option--they’d need to blow their cover and fly back West.

Keith swallowed a curse. Where could they have saved time? Maybe if they’d slept less, or hadn’t stayed the night at the Shiroganes’ home. They could have not stood around while Josiah chortled and cajoled Keith into a conversation. It reminded Keith of Charity’s saying: coulda, shoulda, woulda, but none of that mattered because he hadn’t. He hadn’t, and now things were precarious. 

He waited for the right moment to present itself. Calzada prowled around Shiro like a hunter guarding their kill. But when new arrivals came, a host’s keen instincts forced him away from Shiro. Keith dove in. 

“We need to leave, Shiro.” He glanced over at Calzada who had hooked an arm around the shoulders of a man his height but wider than a bus. “Time’s running short. We need to get back to New Meridian--”

“Preferably before he takes me hostage?” Shiro whispered, voice dry. “You’re worried, I know, but a flight from here to New Meridian is a few hours. It’s better if we smile and nod for him and then leave for a red eye.”

No, he thought, it  _ wasn’t _ . It only fed Calzada’s delusion. Keith didn’t buy that Calzada had surrendered. People like Calzada didn’t get to where they got by running at a hint of resistance. Keith looked up at Shiro, searching for that awareness in Shiro’s eyes.

He found it. It was wistful and resigned. Shiro didn’t want to be in the house. He didn’t want to be near Calzada. They’d probably be at the airport if Shiro had his way. But the present was imitating the past: the Shiro of before wouldn’t leave, even if he should have. And now, trapped in the same circumstances, Shiro was staying because he felt obligated. If he left, would Calzada withdraw his support? If Shiro had left one of Calzada’s parties before breaking away from Miami, wouldn’t Calzada have been furious?

The difference now was that Keith stood in front of Shiro. He didn’t have the chains of memory tying him in place. Keith grabbed Shiro’s hand. Shiro jerked and twisted, but Keith kept his iron grip in place. “We’re leaving,” he said firmly. “You want to, and I want to. So we’re leaving.”

“And what if I don’t want to leave?” Shiro hissed.

Keith looked into Shiro’s loam-dark eyes. “... You want to,” Keith said. Shiro froze. “I can tell. You’re not comfortable here. You know Calzada’s trying to get you drunk so you’ll agree to something--not sex, but an agreement to stay, to forget New Meridian, and tell the Kingdom to go fuck itself because there’s a nice private beach for you to hang out on. The problem is you don’t want that beach. You don’t want Calzada. But you feel obligated to stay and play along because you know him and feel you owe him a debt.  _ I don’t _ . So let me make the decision for you.”

It wasn’t asking for permission. Shiro had to know that. Keith pulled him away from the drink table, toward the front door. Calzada still chattered away, oblivious to the collapse of his plan. Shiro was polite. He pulled out chairs for ladies and said his pleases and thank yous to everyone who did him anything, even if it was the maid cleaning the hall whose eyes met his.

Takashi ‘Shiro’ Shirogane was, outside of the underworld, ridiculously  _ soft _ . Baristas messed up his drink order five times in a row--and he tipped them. A waiter dropped his plate of food on the floor, and Shiro apologized to the waiter. It was stupid. It was ridiculous. It was sometimes embarrassing.

But it was also attractive to a part of Keith that craved some degree of normalcy and civilized behaviour. Josiah would have snarled and barked at the barista, if he’d ever deign to go to a coffee shop in the first place. And a waiter dropping his food? They’d have been shouted at the second a fry touched the tile. Shiro was everything Arizona  _ wasn’t _ , and that was a drug to Keith. 

Genteel manners wouldn’t get them out of Calzada’s house, though. Arizona bluntness would. So Keith marched them to the door and shouldered past a woman who was six foot five easy. She watched him through buggy eyes, contemptuous, but when they alighted on Shiro, hesitance filtered over her expression. Should she be letting Shiro go free?

The answer came when they reached the door. Calzada was laughing with a pair of arrivals, two women in pantsuits, armed to the teeth with weapons secreted in the folds of their clothing. His smile cracked when Keith pushed by him. 

“Where are you going?” Calzada’s voice carried the edge of a knife, but none of the strength.

Keith turned to look Calzada in the eye, even as he pulled Shiro along. “We have to leave for business in Oregon. Thank you for being helpful, but we’re working on a tight schedule.” Keith still tasted moonshine on his tongue. “... Thank you for your hospitality.” That sounded like something Shiro would say, he thought. He tried not to feel too satisfied by that. 

Calzada’s gaze strayed from Keith to land on Shiro. “You’re leaving, Takashi?”

Shiro shifted, uneasy. “We do have business elsewhere, Rafael.”

“Do you?” One of the women grimaced, pulling back. That brought Calzada to his senses. “Of course you do! I’m sorry to have delayed you. Will you need a ride to--?” He didn’t even know where they were going.

Keith would have prefered to leave Calzada in ignorance, but Shiro’s manners kicked in again. “The airport, but we can catch a cab.”

“Why do that when I can have one of my soldiers give you a ride?” Calzada said, breezy as a beach.

Keith forced a smile. It came out ugly, he knew. “We  _ will _ catch a cab. Thank you for the offer.” He pulled Shiro out from the hall, into the wide dark sky above. The light pollution turned the sky an eerie washed-out black, like it’d been layered with grey paint. Lawn lights lit the path, leading along cobbles. Keith had his phone out already. He’d rather waste a phone than ask Calzada to help. 

Calzada watched from the doorway. He was like a bereft lover in a shitty film. All the scene needed were swelling strings and shrieking trumpets. Keith refused to look at him for long. He stared out at neighbouring houses. All of them looked the same--as though they’d been built from the same mould or copy-pasted.

Keith ordered an Uber  _ and _ a taxi. Whichever got there first won, but what mattered was speed. If Calzada worked himself into a froth, he’d march out from his house and cause a scene. Keith had glued himself to Shiro’s side, as though he was the man’s armour.

The Uber came first. The driver--a Latina with a snub-nose and perky grin--seemed a bit unsettled by him and Shiro piling in. Keith suspected it had something to do with location and size. Did she know what Calzada was up to? But that was paranoia. The problem was probably how large Shiro was, even if Shiro was a golden retriever. 

So, as they pulled away, Keith put the woman out of her misery. He leaned over and kissed Shiro on the mouth. Shiro started, his eyes widening to dinner plates, but Keith fell back in his seat and adjusted his legs. He swore he heard the woman sigh in relief.

“... He’ll remember that,” Shiro said as they pulled out of Calzada’s neighbourhood.

Keith snorted. “If he wants to deal with me, he can do it himself. That’s if he’s enough of an idiot to chase after a fight he’s already lost.”

“And if he doesn’t give us the Tongs?”

Keith wondered, momentarily, how that sounded to anyone  _ not _ part of the underground. Did they think barbecue tongs? Salad tongs? Keith shook his head. “Then we do it without them. It’ll be hard, but we’ll do it. And fuck Calzada for going back on his word if he does nothing.”

“It’s easy to say that,” Shiro said, his gaze roving back to the dark world outside the car, “when we’re in Miami. When we’re back in New Meridian… We don’t even know what we’re going back to.”

Keith eyed the woman. She wasn’t looking at them through the mirrors, but he didn’t doubt she was listening intently. If they were too weird, she’d post on social media about them, and who knew if that would blow up? Keith shrugged to no one in particular and fell back against the seat.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Then we can hit the beach as a reward--just go south for the winter for a week or two, maybe near Tijuana. I know there are some people who’d show us around.” They were underworld too, but Shiro didn’t need to be told that.

Shiro murmured something that Keith didn’t catch, but the conversation drifted into silence. They arrived at the hotel, having checked in only hours ago. The front desk agent stared at them as they handed back their keys. She looked thoroughly perplexed. She was even the woman they’d checked in with.

“Everything was fine, though?” she pressed.

Keith forced a smile. It came out haggard. “It has nothing to do with the hotel or staff. Business just moved faster than we were expecting.” Shiro looked at him approvingly. Keith bit back a genuine smile. It would have looked odd on him, especially in front of the woman. Their Uber driver had been suspicious of them--she had nothing concrete, but she smelled something foul about their business.

Keith had one thought about it all: the faster they got out of Miami, the better. New Meridian was ramping up. Calzada would be on the prowl for Shiro. GalTech might even have found them already. And still, there’d been no word of Allura. He didn’t know what they’d do if she was dead. In hiding was best--it put her out of the range of fire, and it positioned her to swoop in when the dust cleared and rebuild her kingdom.

But if she was alive, neither him or Shiro knew that. Keith suspected it was the same for the other Lions. So long as she wasn’t announced dead, though, Keith felt it reasonable to hold on to hope. When he said that to Shiro on the drive to the airport, the man agreed.

“She’s survived a lot. Too much to go down to a firebombing.” Shiro sighed as he changed lanes. “Coran would have made sure there were a half dozen emergency exits. He cares about her too much to do anything less.”

Despite their belief, though, Keith didn’t feel comforted as they dumped the SUV in a ditch outside the airport in a restaurant parking lot. They had plastic bags and duffels from Shiro’s parents’ home for their meagre belongings. 

It was 10 at night. People thronged the roped-off queues. A girl cried beside her mother, having lost her doll; an older man sucked at a cup of coffee, dark circles ringing his eyes, declaring him a frequent flyer that rarely stopped. In front of the busy lines were terminals--some for checking in, others for information, all with the capability to book a flight.

Keith picked up two tickets on a flight from Miami straight to New Meridian. It was a red eye at one, the plane only a third full. “First class?” Keith asked.

Shiro’s lips twitched. “You know what I like, babe.”

_ Babe _ felt good to hear. It was warm. Pleasant. It dulled the static feeling Calzada had caused--a distance that existed despite the presence right beside him. “First class it is.” They had the money, after all. They’d been frugal on their trip: more than enough to ride in style now. Keith would argue they’d earned a break. A nice meal, maybe, and some leg room. A bit of privacy to talk in too. 

First class was empty. They were the only two to book. Keith used that promised end to endure sitting at the gate, lunch boxes in hand. They’d picked them up from a vegan cafe; they were little slices of sauced tofu, vegetables, and nuts. To Keith, they tasted like earth and wood, with a bit of surprising heat. Shiro barely touched his.

Hours passed. Shiro dozed while Keith made quiet calls across the country. It was time, he said. Gather in New Meridian and wait for the signal. Within three days, the Kingdom would reign again. 

The words came from his lips like Shiro had said them. They felt… wrong. Different. Like they were tarnished. Shiro had always been a good soldier, friend, and lover. But something unsettled him. It was creeping, insidious; it was poison at the roots of a tree. Things had happened, and neither of them had really talked about them. Run from them? Yes. Just like they had when things had gone wrong before.

Was Keith letting Shiro escape dealing with his issues? Was Shiro doing the same for Keith? The idea of sitting down and talking about Josiah or the Hacketts sent an electric chill down his spine. Everything in his mind babbled excuses. Shiro would think less of him. Shiro didn’t want to hear it. Shiro had his own problems, and while they fucked and kissed and sometimes ate out together, that didn’t mean Shiro was suddenly a shoulder to cry on. And what kind of man would he be if he cried on Shiro’s shoulder over something that’d happened years ago? Trauma was for wide-eyed kids shown a dark world too fast. 

Keith had never been wide-eyed. Maybe, he thought, Shiro had been. He wanted to ask, but to ask would mean to disturb the quiet surface of an ocean that roiled below. The undertow would pull him out into the open expanse. He’d lose himself in memories and regrets, some his, some Shiro’s, and he’d never make it back to shore. 

It was better to not swim at all. Leave the ocean alone, ignore the undertows, smile and fight and fuck and just keep living. It’s what he’d done for years. What was the point in making the relationship complex? Shiro hadn’t volunteered to be his crutch or soulmate. It was a relationship of convenience, one they’d fallen into easily, and could fall out of with a single listing step.

Shut up,, be quiet, enjoy the moment. What if the moment was now tainted, though? Tainted by memories of hurt children, beatings, and the caustic laugh of men whose wills could reshape mountains. Both of them were broken--crippled in their own ways. Neither of them would recognize the other from before the underworld. Keith didn’t know if he’d want to. A Shiro from prep school would have looked down his nose at a drawling, weathered Keith, a delinquent who was powering towards criminality at a clip.

The Shiroganes thought he was in accounting. If Shiro wasn’t covering for him and the Kingdom hadn’t paid for an expensive suit, nobody would have bought the claim. He hadn’t even finished high school--and the bit of schooling he’d had in Clarence was patchy, ruined by skipping class and preferring to learn how to play pool than do his homework or read.

Shiro, though. Shiro came from  _ money _ . His parents were brilliant and successful--not like Keith’s dead mother and absent father. A proud family had raised Shiro to be cultured and clever and charming; Keith may as well have been raised by wolves.

If it wasn’t for the underworld, they’d never have met. If it wasn’t for the underworld, Keith would never have been considered a prospective partner to Shiro. And--frankly--Keith would have never dared assume he could be. In the underground, Keith’s fists and tongue were a good match to Shiro’s smile and cunning. Anywhere else, and Keith was gutter trash. He was scum that’d bubbled to the top, as Calzada had said. Nothing, no one, worthless.

His skin prickled beneath his suit. Was it a panic attack? Keith swallowed disgust. Josiah would have laughed at him, maybe smacked him once. Those who sold their souls to the Devil below the ground didn’t have a right to panic or whine. Things were what they were--made by the Devil and his mistress Lady Luck. If Shiro had been awake and saw him shivering and shuddering, he would have said nothing. Just like Keith would have said nothing to Shiro in the same circumstances. 

_ You’re a fucking misery _ , Josiah had told him when he was sixteen and moody.  _ You make problems where there aren’t any, and you talk like you live in a graveyard when you get in these moods. Stop acting like a fucking woman and start acting like a made man. _

Keith didn’t know if he should hate the expectations or agree with them. Crying wasn’t something a man should do, even if he was gay and in the city. It wasn’t--he didn’t think  _ less _ of women. Pidge and Allura and the Moretti women would have snapped his spine if he did. But it was hard to let go. It was hard to walk away from Clarence, into the big city, and forget everything. 

And one of those things had been what a man was and should do. Don’t cry. Don’t panic. Don’t be  _ weak _ , and to be weak was to be womanly. Being gay was bad enough--bad enough to hide it from most made men and women outside of the cities. But the reddening spots and gooseflesh and wobbling, gibbering thoughts--if he didn’t stop them now, Shiro would find out, and when Shiro found out, Shiro wouldn’t think less of him because he was a posh city boy who’d been told all his life that it was okay to cry, maybe not for Shiro  _ personally _ , but other boys could cry and that was a good thing, but Shiro should never cry because that was too open and too emotional and it  _ inconvenienced  _ people and made them uncomfortable, so Keith could cry or panic but Shiro would, on some level, judge Keith for it, right alongside Keith judging himself.

He stood up and left Shiro at the gate. For where, he didn’t know. He staggered between gates. A few people stared. Ferocious energy drove him onward. There was nothing to see--only scattered pockets of other late-night flyers, all dismal and depressed. Nobody wanted to be at the airport. 

But Keith--for a moment, Keith didn’t want to be in New Meridian either.


	8. Chapter 8

What was New Meridian?

It was a surprisingly common question. Sometimes it was delivered in disbelief as the speaker read a new headline. Other times, it was in admiration. What was this city that could produce such talent, such wealth, such  _ style _ ? The world’s centre had detached itself from New York City to New Meridian two decades ago. Now everyone went there--or dreamed of living in its cramped backstreets.

There was  _ life _ to New Meridian. Not just nightlife, but a sense of vitality that infused the very asphalt of the streets. People were awake at all hours; people busied themselves with shopping at three in the morning, or going to school at midnight. Things didn’t sleep in New Meridian. While New York City had thrown back coffees, New Meridian had lost the ability to even doze. 

There were quiet districts. They were largely the docks and wealthier areas. The docks relied on sunlight to function; the wealthier areas could afford to close. New Meridian’s only lines were drawn on streets and through class. It didn’t care about race. It didn’t care about who you loved. It cared about the money in your wallet and the price tag of your clothes.

Keith could respect that. He even admired it. When he’d first come, he’d hated it--but that was because he had a pittance to his name compared to New Meridian’s wealthy and his clothes belonged more on LA streets than New Meridian’s boardrooms. Everything was better, he thought, when you were on the top. 

When their plane landed at one of New Meridian’s six airports, Keith and Shiro disembarked in style. The flight attendant that’d cared for them since the first hour before boarding followed after them, guiding them through special halls, offering specially branded luxury items, even handing them both expensive sparkling water bottles.

Her eyes never met theirs. It disturbed Keith. He’d flown premium first class before, but he’d never quite got used to it. Keith’s request had kept them out of the lounge area while waiting. As much as Keith hated waiting at the gate, the only thing worse were the smiling automatons who were paid nowhere near enough to act nursemaids to the wealthy.

The flight attendant led them to a complimentary limousine. The chauffeur stepped out, even opened the door for them; Shiro strode ahead like he was at all used to this, and maybe he was. Maybe he’d grown up only flying premium first class. But Keith hadn’t been on a plane until he was in his twenties.

“Good morning, sirs,” the chauffeur said, a warm, fake smile on his face. “Let me take your luggage.” He said it like what they had wasn’t scraps. Shiro turned over two quarter-full duffels and a plastic bag as carry-on. The chauffeur kept a straight face as he stored them in the back.

Keith leaned into Shiro. Heat brushed against him. His mind clouded for a moment, but he pushed through. “What if the Empire--”

Shiro shook his head. “They wouldn’t. It’d pull the Naiya Corporation into this. They’ve just taken hold of New Meridian--they won’t bring Chicago into this mess.”

Wouldn’t they, though? The Empire was ready to fight all comers. Zachariah had displayed his strength and shown the world that he was willing to break the rules. GalTech had destroyed the Kingdom--just like Althea could have destroyed the Empire. It’d been an explicit agreement that the companies would never get involved.

Keith’s skin itched as they piled into the circle of backseats. Shiro sprawled beside a minifridge. Keith curled up near the side, away from the driver and back window. If they were shot at, Keith fully planned to make a stand. What that stand would look like, he didn’t want to think about. 

“They’re coming up?” Shiro asked.

Keith blinked. It took a moment for his mind to catch up. “Uh--Lance and the others?” He gave a sharp nod. “I called them before we left and dumped the phone. Not that it’ll stop GalTech from knowing soon.”

“Stop worrying about GalTech, babe.” Shiro smiled at him. “If they know, they know. We can hide just like before. You want to stay downtown or the outskirts again?”

Keith’s fingernails dug into his skin. He angled his hands so Shiro couldn’t see. “Outskirts is safer.”

“This isn’t about safer.” Shiro opened the minifridge and pulled out a champagne bottle. “This is about making a statement. We need others to join us. If you’re up for it, we can walk down around the Bell Tower.”

His heart thundered in his chest. An unseen entity stole the air in his lungs. Panic flooded him, hot as melted steel. “I think it might be best if we keep a low profile.”

Shiro frowned. “What do you mean? We’re back in New Meridian. You know what we have to do, Keith.”

_ Danger, danger, danger  _ his mind howled. To show themselves invited danger. Shiro was the type to assume they’d make it through--but Keith remembered how Shiro had almost died. If it wasn’t for getting the medication, Shiro would have died from head trauma. 

They needed to do it. It was part of the plan. But the same panic that’d taken him over in Miami grabbed hold of him now and shook. It wasn’t--it wasn’t safe. It begged for the Empire to take a chunk out of them, even if it was necessary to make the dormant Kingdom rise again. They could ignore the Kingdom and follow Lothar’s plan. Kill the upper echelons and then sweep through the city, collecting people as they went, stirring the city’s underworld into a frenzy, and then crowning a resurrected Allura Althea.

But that was a dream. It was a stupid dream from a stupid mind, and his reluctance to risk himself would get many others killed. The Empire wouldn’t fall just because officers were killed. It was one step in a long process of rebuilding. And if he was smart, he’d help now before things got worse.

Where was his backbone? He was a soldier of the Kingdom. He was a Lion. Had Calzada really unnerved him so much? He shook his head. “Let’s do it.” He tried to squeeze out the reluctance in his voice. 

Shiro eyed him, but didn’t press. He told the chauffeur to take them downtown. The ride seemed to stretch for an eternity. All the while, Keith’s mind stuttered over images of blood and Shiro’s wan face. Dazed, glazed eyes looked up at him, yet across from where Keith sat, Shiro had poured himself a glass of champagne.

The downtown bustled. It looked like some little old town from New England had been transported into a city of chrome and steel. Everyone was wealthy--some obnoxiously so, dressed in designer labels and peacock colours, while others were stately, refined, and discerning old money that took pride in how expensive their plain black slacks were.

Shiro still had the bottle of champagne when they left the limousine. The chauffeur was told to go to the park and wait. Keith forced a smile as Shiro looped an arm around his waist. Shiro pressed a quick kiss against Keith’s temple. Before he pulled back, he whispered something to Keith.

“No matter what happens,” he’d said, “don’t stop smiling.”

Keith wasn’t meant for this. Propaganda, PR, whatever anyone wanted to call it--that wasn’t Keith. That was Lance and Shiro and Allura and sometimes Hunk. It wasn’t Keith. Keith didn’t play well with others at the best of times, even when he tried. He didn’t get people, and people didn’t get him.

Shiro strode. He had the charisma and build to stride. People, no matter their wealth, slipped out of his way, even as they pretended not to. Some stared at the open champagne bottle. Others watched Shiro through dazed eyes. A few looked at Keith--Keith, who suddenly felt invisible, more like an ornament than a person.

Was that how Calzada had made Shiro feel? It wasn’t hate that bubbled in Keith’s chest. It was the sickly curiosity of what each of them had experienced. In Clarence, Keith had always been visible, whether as the only Japanese boy in town, as the delinquent, as the thug. He was used to standing out, even when he didn’t want to. But beside Shiro, a man used to being  _ normal _ , he faded to the background. It should have relieved him. Keith hated being the centre of attention. Yet all he could think of was Calzada’s strut and dark, possessive eyes.

The past followed him like a lost dog. It bounded around his feet, its sad gold eyes glimmering in the sunlight. Remember me! it said. From memory they’d come, and to memory they would  _ be _ come. The past had made them who they were. Josiah ran in Keith’s blood--despite a lack of relation, despite the hatred Keith felt. Josiah was more of a parent to Keith than any other person on Earth.

What did that make him? How did he forget that again? Did Shiro not wonder the same? How could he go back to the strange relationship he had with Keith when he’d been confronted by Calzada? How would he look at himself in the mirror with the memory of the Wyatts’ children?

They’d done it before, but the wounds had been scabbed over. The trip across America had ripped them open with jagged claws.  _ What now? _ he asked. What now? They returned to pretending. Keith would mime Shiro’s swagger and bare his teeth in a parody-grin for anyone who looked at him. What now? It was a show, a display, a pantomime where only gleaming bone hid his reddening skin from prying eyes.

The cameras would record the Lions’ return. The Empire would scramble to find them--but a quick ride, and they’d be back in cover, hidden away from knives and guns. Shiro offered champagne to a well-dressed coquette who giggled and fluttered her lashes. She drank a solid third of the bottle before she gave it back.

Keith respected her more than the others. Most eyed the bottle like it was diseased--or eyed it greedily, their vices visible for the world to see. The downtown didn’t just look like it was from New England: it was populated by Puritans and sinners.

They walked around a half dozen blocks. Shiro’s arm never left Keith’s waist. It was the most public declaration of their relationship that they’d ever done. Something was wrong, Keith thought. It was off, strange, bizarre--Shiro wouldn’t have willingly done something like this. It hurt both their reputations when the Kingdom’s corpse was threatening to cool. 

What the hell was Shiro thinking? To ask now, though, would invite attention from onlookers. They needed a united front. Keith forced himself to look up at Shiro and smile. The smile Shiro gave, his head tilting down, reminded him of a corpse’s grin.

Things were bad. They still smiled as they reached the end of the downtown’s rows; across from them was a sprawling park of willows, fir, and birch. Flowers covered emerald grass, the array of colours resembling rainbows and prisms. Shiro still carried the bottle as he led Keith across the busy road. A few people honked at them; most just stared as they strolled into Honeyvale Park.

The limo waited for them in the courtyard where the bisecting roads met. Honeyvale was quiet and stately in the roar of humanity that was New Meridian. Outside of the downtown, a limo become far stranger. A pair of children pointed at it from where other kids danced in sprinklers under the watchful eyes of parents. 

Shiro let go of Keith. Relief filled him; Keith hated that he felt like that, but it was like the air had been restored into his lungs. Getting into the car, away from stares and accusing fingers, was like entering a sanctuary.

“Outskirts,” Shiro said. “Around the foundries.” He glanced at Keith. “They’ll meet us there?”

Keith swallowed. “I told them to.”

“Then we can hope they figured out how to sneak in.” Shiro fell back. The champagne bottle rested in his lap. “GalTech will get the alert through the Vigilance system.”

The downtown belonged to nobody, so Vigilance tracked it. Owned by the government, its recordings were open to any bribes or contracted ‘analysts’. Every mover of import had a line to it. The docks, though, had belonged to the Kingdom, and so Vigilance had never touched it. There were routes into the city outside of Vigilance’s watchful eye--and Zachariah knew that, so foot soldiers had to be patrolling them.

Keith rubbed the bridge of his nose. Things were fine, he told himself. They were going to go to the outskirts, find the foundry, and hide out while they gathered their forces for Lothar’s promised night. Things would go wrong, as they tended to, but it wouldn’t be unfixable. It’d take a few deaths and maybe a bruise or two, but it wouldn’t be to anyone who mattered.

They had Lothar’s number. It took Pidge securing a VOIP program for them to call. The other Lions were holed up in a steel foundry’s upper levels, above molten metal and vats of chemicals. Hunk had created a stash of weapons for use, collected from remaining Kingdom loyalists. Lance had been scouting since he’d arrived. 

And Pidge--Pidge had been tracking GalTech and the Empire. “They’re trying to hook up into everything,” she told them grimly. “They’ve been pushing other made people further and further into the city, away from the docks and north. I think they want to--to  _ herd _ them. Like some hunters directed bison over cliffs with fire. They’re waiting for the right moment to strike, and it’s going to be a massacre.”

It was going to be the Empire that got massacred, Shiro said, cocksure and smirking. Pidge had stared at him blankly. The expression belonged more on someone like Lance. Not Shiro--Shiro was calm, collected, a little goofy in his off time, but never arrogant or smirking when lives were on the line. Pidge glanced at Keith, as though Keith had the answer, but Keith said nothing.

The call went through. Lothar picked up in the middle of the night. His voice was clipped. “It’s in the Aiqi Business Park. My father’s most valued will be waiting there tomorrow. They plan to initiate a certain surprise from there. What it is, I have not the faintest clue--they’ve been most certain to keep me far from such proceedings.” Lothar went quiet. Shiro opened his mouth to talk, but Lothar spoke first. “There’s something…  _ new _ to the air. It has my father and his thugs on edge. If I were to wager a guess, I would say that my father knows you’re back. All of you. And that has him concerned. Though I daresay I don’t--it was a pleasure to talk to you if you succeed, but I don’t know your faces if you don’t.”

And then Lothar hung up. Lance stared at the computer. “What an  _ asshole _ . Are we really going to trust him?”

“Do we have a choice?” Hunk asked from where he babied a sniper rifle. “Seems to me he’s the only one with any information of what’s happening, and it’s not like he’ll gain anything if he rats us out.” Hunk’s brows furrowed. “... I think.”

Pidge shook her head. “I’m with Lance on this. It sounds like a really bad idea. There are fifty ways this could go wrong off the top of my head, and one of them is all five of us dying.”

“So what?” Keith said. The words surprised him the most out of anyone in the room. Everyone’s eyes turned to focus on Keith. “I--” Heat beaded on his skin. “We came here to do a job. If we don’t, this was a waste. We have the Hand, the Morettis, Seattle’s Tongs, and weapons from Fay coming. What do we do when it all gets here? Just send them home?” He didn’t look any of them in the eyes. “We go to this place with some of the Hand and shoot it up. Make it messy so it sends the Empire running. Then we mop them up with the rest of what we have--some will go inland, but it’s a long fucking ride out. The docks are going to be sealed off by the Tongs. Fifty things could go wrong--but we’ve got a lot of stuff we can fight that with.”

He shouldn’t have spoken. It was rough and tattered and not at all eloquent. The others were mired in a silence; Shiro and Hunk were thinking, but Pidge had looked down at her computer, shading the doubt in her eyes from view. Lance watched Keith, his small eyes clinical and sharp.

“He’s right,” Lance said.

Pidge sighed in frustration. “You were just saying you were worried.”

“Not worried!” Lance sounded indignant. “Concerned, maybe.” He ignored Pidge’s mutter of  _ synonyms _ . “But if we’ve got even a third of what he’s listing, it’s worth a shot. I’m not saying I’ll stick around if things go south, but I’m willing to turn up with a gun, if only because they firebombed our building too, and I have collector’s editions of so many games, Pidge.”

Pidge flopped back in her rickety chair. “So that’s why we’re going to do this? Spite?”

“Isn’t that why we do everything?” Hunk asked from the window. 

Pidge’s lips pursed. “... True. I don’t like this, but if I’m allowed to go south if things, well, go south, then fine. I’ll risk this once.”

Hunk shrugged when they looked at him. “This is what I have,” he said quietly, “and I don’t want to go back east so I can wipe someone else’s ass.”

For Shiro and Keith--well, they’d organized it. If they had second thoughts, they’d lost the right to express them. Particularly Keith after how he’d spoken. Keith was painfully aware of it. He’d signed himself up for it without thinking.

It was easy, he told himself.  The Hand would arrive in hours; the Morettis were bussing in their soldiers. The Empire’s unease would grow at the sudden influx, but they wouldn’t know what to make of it when they all piled into the foundry district. The district would become fortified, a no-go zone for any Imperial soldier, and the Empire’s strategy of herding would be interrupted. The Empire wanted the underworld to be pushed north-east, away from the docks, towards the grimier parts of New Meridian so that the slaughter could happen in the projects, below the great overpass that arched above the warrens, letting the wealthy cross far above. The Empire would be fighting to contain and direct their prey--while fending off a predator in their midst. 

The Morettis didn’t come in person. Keith wasn’t surprised. They were the owners; for them to come meant risking the dynasty and their reputations. If it was just selected soldiers, then the soldiers could die without any comment from the Morettis’ circles.

Josiah came. That surprised Keith--no, he thought, that  _ dismayed _ him. Josiah grinned at him, yellowed teeth flashing in dim lights, and the other bikers nudged each other, pointing at Keith with fat fingers. He’d thought he’d escaped the past, but he’d invited it right back in.

Shiro said nothing. The other Lions watched Keith and the members of the Hand, their faces ranging from puzzled to suspicious. Keith refused to meet Josiah’s eyes, even when they were speaking to each other. Speaking as necessity demanded: what were the best routes to take to the Aiqi Business Development? Was the Empire known for patrolling this area? How many cameras were wired there?

They were questions for both Keith and Pidge to answer. Pidge gave them in pieces, forever reluctant to reveal her secrets; Keith spat the information out, unwilling to endure the attention of the motley crew they’d assembled. The worst of it, he reflected, was that it wasn’t just Josiah he knew. Every time he encountered the Hand’s scattered groups, he caught the eyes of someone he’d known before. What he should say to them, he never knew. Maybe it was best to pretend he didn’t know them. No one called him out on it, so he continued down that road. 

But it would never last. Trying to escape like that never did. It was the second day, the day that the assault would take place, and Keith was holed up in a South Asian grocery. No one was happy with the arrangement: the owners knew of the Kingdom and its fall, and they’d paid tribute before in return for freedom of movement and protection. Now, they ached for the status quo. The Empire’s taxes were heavier than the Kingdom’s, and the Empire didn’t play favourites.

The Sodhis were a family of wealthy migrants whose visas were tied up in operating the shop. They got more money from the stocks their patriarch had invested in, but they’d made inconvenient enemies in Punjab, forcing them to flee, and New Meridian was one of the places where no one cared about what you’d done before arriving.

The Sodhis’ employees worked around the bikers and Keith. Darvesh, the patriarch’s son, hovered nearby, between a rack of spice blends and chickpea flours. A stormcloud darkened his craggy face. “This is  _ bad _ ,” he muttered. “This is stupid. What are we doing?”

Nobody said anything--not his employees to comfort him, nor the soldiers to rebuke him. Keith honestly agreed with Darvesh. The entire thing was stupid. Sure, the Sodhi shop was a good staging point--but it also wasn’t defensible. Once he and the Hand left, there wasn’t any chance to go back in. The shop, meanwhile, might be torn apart if the Empire saw where they’d come from. Particularly if the Kingdom’s remnants fell.

Darvesh hovered. The TV screen in the shop’s back had been repurposed to hook into the camera systems. Pidge guided them through the business park. Aiqi was quiet--not strangely so, as it was approaching seven in the evening, but enough that Keith wondered if it was natural. He didn’t put it past the Empire to speed along employees with gentle, innocent instructions about an important meeting that nobody was to go near.

And important it was. Limos and Jaguars piled on to Aiqi’s dark streets. Guard-filled SUVs guided their flesh and blood cargo through a jungle of predators. They had to know the Kingdom was back. What they didn’t know was that Lothar had said anything. Lothar, who was likely hidden away either in L.A. or in New Meridian.

Keith’s heart stuttered over its beats. Something itched at the base of his skull. The adrenaline that ran through his veins wasn’t natural: it was poisoned by an unknown metal, weighed down like lead, shimmering like mercury, fuelling him to a madness that danced on the tip of his tongue. It was coming. He knew that. The mission needed him to focus, but his eyes couldn’t settle on anything. People spoke to him, and he fought against a drawling slur as the reply.

What was wrong with him? The question had so very many answers. Worry for the work they were going to do. Anxiety at the way Josiah eyed him. Rage at having been cornered like a rat by the Empire. Frustration at how he couldn’t find it in himself to talk to Shiro about what they’d seen. Maybe even a bit of sadness at his now-weeping wounds. 

“Your face is longer than a flagpole, boy,” Josiah murmured to him. “What’s got you in a mood now?”

Womanly, womanish, effete and feminine. Keith shook his head, both to turn away Josiah and knock the thoughts from his head. Arizona was coming too close. Emotions and feelings had no gender. Women could be just as stoic and sharp as men--and if they weren’t, that was not a fault. It was everything the West Coast had taught him. The gangs in L.A. could be brutal, but it was the 2050s. Women were in gangs; women ran gangs. 

They ran  _ empires _ , despite what Josiah and his fellow morons insisted. They weren’t regents or princesses. They were queens and empresses, and God help anyone who was in the way of Allura or Claire or even Nicole. 

Allura, he reminded himself, who was still alive. There’d been no funeral or announcement beyond a statement that she was coalescing in a Colorado spa. Keith suspected she was still in New Meridian, hidden away, plotting her return. She wasn’t so easily defeated. Zachariah had killed her father, and Allura hated him. She’d never trust him, and she’d never leave her back turned to any coming knives. She had to have escaped. She’d learned from her father’s mistakes.

“Boy,” Josiah hissed. He whacked Keith on the shoulder. “Eyes up! They’re moving.”

Keith startled from his crouch. He’d been squatting in front of the TV, waiting for a change but not watching. Now, though, the vehicles were crammed into the parking lot of GalTech’s premiere building. They had places throughout the city, but the Warren was the finest bit of architecture available for their scientists and number-crunchers. R&D and Accounting split the building in half: the top floors for accounting, the ground for R&D. 

They wouldn’t be going up. They’d be going down, down, down, right to the very bottom floor, fortified like a nuclear bunker and surrounded by soldiers. But to the Empire, it was a routine meeting. It was a victory lap where they’d plan how to clean up the remaining mess. There’d be champagne among knives and guns, and vicious little grins would dance over haggard faces.

They didn’t know what was coming. There was no way for them to. Lance and Hunk would run distraction--not with explosives, but with a drunken scene nearby. It’d draw out some of the guards, and the more it escalated, involving bought cops, the less resistance he and Shiro’s teams would face. 

Shiro would go from the back. His crew of well-dressed Moretti-branded soldiers lazed about in a cafe inching towards closing. They mimed a meeting, just like the one happening in Aiqi proper, but with a single signal from Hunk, they’d abandon their drinks and laugher to slip across the street.

The Hand would be taking the brunt of it. Keith suspected it was because the Hand was less valuable: Josiah was replaceable, as were the rest of the thugs with pipes and shotguns. And if the Hand was wiped out, well. Better them than the Morettis’ crew; the Morettis would be annoyed, and that would impact the bottom line.

Everyone had to know it. It wasn’t much of a leap. But Keith had expected more hostility, whether sneers or jeers towards him or the rest of the Kingdom. But the Hand had accepted it with admirable stoicism. They were disposable to the people they were trying to help. What bound them to the Kingdom? It couldn’t just be Josiah.

The answer, he suspected, came from the conspiring grins the bikers shared with Keith, recognition clear in their eyes but absent from Keith’s mind. They knew him. They still thought, on some level, that he was their mascot. He wasn’t almost in his thirties; he was a fifteen year old again in their eyes, gangly and awkward and just a little bit too vicious for polite society. He wasn’t a broken mess. He was a ‘work in progress’ that the Hand had decided to shape together with leathery hands and chipped nails.

“Y’know how to use that?” one of the bikers had teased as Keith had joined them in the Sodhis’ shop. A Beretta hung inside his coat, slim and elegant as a cigarette holder.

Keith had stared at the man. His hair had turned a fatty-yellow that spoke of age, and his skin looked thin as tissue, yet his fingers prepared a sawed off shotgun with practiced ease, and his grin declared he knew the answer before even asking. His eyes said he knew Keith. Keith didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t asked the man’s identity--he hadn’t even replied to the man’s question except with a shake of the head. All the while, the Hand watched him, waiting, he thought, for the return of the spitfire they’d known. He didn’t give it to them. There wasn’t anything  _ to _ give. The lake inside him had drained to murky, brackish water.

They left the shop when Darvesh’s phone buzzed. Pidge had sent them the text--a series of numbers that meant nothing without knowing the code. Lance and Hunk had stirred the beehive, and the security details were inching closer and closer towards the scene. It left the right side of the building open for the Hand to surprise, while Shiro pincered on the left side. 

There were thirty people in total. Keith thought they’d be lucky to get out with ten. The thought trailed him as they strode across the street, out of the little commercial district the Sodhi Shop lived in and into the Aiqi Business Park. The stars were hidden by New Meridian’s lights, and the moon peeked from behind clouds, giving a sprinkling of light--enough to catch the rain puddles that’d bloomed over the day.

It was quiet, and Keith thought he might have enjoyed that more if not for the looming building ahead. The GalTech building was soullessly modern--stone and steel and glass, with too-neat gardens along a paved path that circled the building, leading from the streets and parking lots to the heart of the block. All the lights were out at the top. The front doors were brilliant, almost show-stopping. But it wasn’t their destination.

Their destination was a side-exit. Meant for employees leaving on a lunch break or janitorial staff to use, it was a simple metal door that clanged whenever it shut, as though declaring to the world that the lessers had left. The policy they’d found online had been more delicate: it disturbed the flow of business to have people going in and out through the front, and what could be worse than making a trust fund client uneasy at the poors around them?

God, he wished the building had been made of wood. It would have been fitting to torch the place. It’d cost Zachariah money to rebuild it and hurt his pride, even if it wouldn’t slow his research operations for a minute. Everything would have been backed up on the cloud a thousand times before the scientists left.

There were three guards at the door. They weren’t paying attention: one stared at her phone, a vacant look on her face as she played one game or another, while the other two were braying like donkeys, stumbling around as though drunk like their masters below. 

Keith motioned at an AR-carrying biker. A spray of bullets slammed into the glass and flesh. Blood splashed out, painting white-washed stone crimson. There wasn’t any time for the guards to scream. The rapid spitting cracks from the gun echoed. Silence, then the second part of the plan went into action.

It was July, and because it was the States, the weeks leading up to and the weeks after always had some redneck setting off fireworks. So while it was an unusual spot, fireworks began to go off in the distance, tucked behind a business dedicated to graphic design. In seconds, the news would be passed along, and more guards would leave, searching for the revellers. 

No one would see that the hulking guards had been replaced by decently-dressed hulking bikers. The blood would dry and darken, and the lights were poor anyway. Nobody would know what’d happened until the sun came out and the bodies were found piled in a janitorial closet. Keith carefully opened the door with the password Pidge had harvested.

“This is clean,” Josiah said from behind him. Keith kept his eyes ahead, but he felt the man’s warmth press close. “You usually operate like this?”

No ‘boy’, Keith noticed. Was Josiah starting to take him seriously? Keith suspected he wouldn’t for long. Keith would always be a silly protégé to Josiah. “Focus. Gun over my shoulder. If you see anyone, right between the eyes.”

Josiah laughed softly. “I can do that. Lead the way, Keith.”

_ Keith _ . He didn’t twitch; he shoved the door open and marched into clean white halls. Auteur abstract art decorated the walls. Delicate green plants sprouted from black pots and vases. The air smelled of lemon cleaner and the heat of human bodies. But they were empty, the employees long since home, and there were no guards on most of the first floor. Keith walked through the halls, waiting and watching, but Josiah’s barrel didn’t even twitch.

The fireworks still cracked and whistled high above. Keith’s trained ear could pick out the snaps of a pistol firing. He hoped it was Shiro and his crew. He didn’t have the time to dwell: they were getting close to the front, near where the watching guards would be. If Keith and the others didn’t kill them, the guards would bottleneck them in the basement, trapping them until the police came. Keith strode toward the hall door to the lobby and kicked it open.

It was over in seconds. The fights always were. Adrenaline sped up time to a blur, and every decision came through pure instinct. Keith ducked down; Josiah fired at a wide-eyed man in a polka-dot tie. Keith lifted his gun. The Imperial guards mirrored his action, all aiming at Josiah. But they didn’t realize that Josiah was just as fast, even if he was ancient.

Josiah ducking cleared the way for the half dozen barrels aimed at the guards. A wave of bullets slammed into them. A few toppled; one’s brains splattered against a ficus. Two managed to shoot back. The first bullet grazed a biker’s cheek, taking out his ear. The other hit a biker in the stomach. The man half-crumpled. His gun fell from his hands as they went to cup the gushing wound. 

He’d be dead in an hour. It’d be agonizing as his stomach acid poured out into his body cavity. The blood loss would numb him in his final moments, but that would be far too late for comfort. Keith shot one of the guards in the neck. The arc of blood that burst free coloured the tile pink.

The biker needed to get to the hospital. Any of the underworld doctors would need an hour to prep for him, and they wouldn’t have the abilities of a real hospital. But they needed to finish this first: when that was done, they could haul the biker into a SUV and get him to a hospital.

Josiah moved, his mouth opening, but Keith got there first as he surveyed the guards laid out, some dead, the rest dying. “Someone take him to a sideroom. We’ll be back for you when we’re done this. If it looks like you might get caught, dump him--”

“Dump him?” Josiah said, aghast. Keith blinked and looked at the man. “That’s Henry, boy!”

Keith didn’t remember who Henry was. Was that by choice, or was his memory really that faulty? His skin prickled. Unease stole over him. But to backtrack now meant admitting weakness, and that wasn’t acceptable on a mission.

He schooled his face to something neutral. “It’s not a choice I want them to make,” he said quietly, “but I’d rather not have two dead.” He shook his head. “Someone take the man to a fucking chair. He’s dying, and the sooner we get this finished, the sooner we can save him.”

Josiah didn’t argue. A man with buzzed hair and tattoos on his scalp hauled the dying man away. Keith didn’t wait for them to get in a room--he led the remaining thirteen through the lobby, putting bullets into skulls where he saw twitches as he went. Several of the bikers helped. Pidge would have to deal with the footage.

The elevators were on the left side of the building. Shiro’s group had got there first. Keith scanned the group, counting. There was only one missing. Keith tried not to hunch as Shiro counted Keith’s group.

“They got the jump?” Shiro asked as they waited for the elevators to arrive.

Keith shook his head. “One got injured. Another’s staying with him.” Shiro frowned and Keith shrugged. “Not my idea. The Hand’s more like the Lions than the Morettis.”

Shiro still didn’t look happy. “We’re not supposed to let this happen.”

“Then you try to stop them,” Keith snapped. Shiro stiffened, his eyes widening, but Keith only felt the anger in him coil tighter. Rage, rage, and a dash of pure, undiluted frustration--that was what flowed inside him. “I’m making of this what I can.”

Shiro opened his mouth to speak, but the elevators dinged in unison. Everyone lifted their guns, prepared for an assault or surprised guards, but there was no one inside, not even guards for the elevators. That was more unnerving, Keith thought, than if the US military had poured out. Those below had to know, then. They’d have contacted their fellows above for routine checks and received no response, or the Kingdom had attacked while a communication line was active.

It meant they were playing it smart. They were fortifying themselves below, ready for a shoot out. Keith ground his teeth together as Josiah muttered darkly behind him. It was  _ bad planning _ , Josiah said. The Kingdom was dimmer than he’d assumed, and his soldiers would pay for the Kingdom’s mistakes in blood. 

A flush spread to Keith’s cheeks. It wasn’t embarrassment or even rage. It was the kind of frustration that stole words from the victim’s lips and twisted the mind’s screws into bone. He’d fucked up. He and Shiro had cocked up the operation, and there wasn’t any coming back from it. That dying soldier would be dead in thirty minutes. Lothar’s intelligence would be wasted. 

The Kingdom could either retreat and hope for another opportunity--or push forward and hoped that not everyone died in the effort. If Keith survived, he’d have to explain to the Morettis what had happened. If the Hand was decimated, they’d spit on him and his name until they died.

His mind chanted the words again and again that he’d once again fucked up everything. This time, though, he couldn’t run for it. There weren’t any Morettis; Allura wouldn’t be there to offer him a job. It was this or nothing. This, or once again being haunted by shit he should have been able to control. 

Make a choice, roll the dice, check his cards. So long as snake eyes and the Dead Man’s Hand didn’t come to him, he’d be all right. He slipped a hand into his pocket. It was still there. 

“Let’s go,” he said. He already knew what he’d do. It didn’t matter if the odds became stacked against him. Hesitation washed over the crowded soldiers, but when Keith stopped in the elevator’s centre, turned on his heel, and pinned them with blank eyes, they stirred. 

Two elevators wasn’t enough. They’d have to come down in waves of five. The weapons were too bulky, and everyone took up the same room as three. Keith pushed his way to the front. His hand waited in his pocket. The metal felt hot against his skin, even if he knew it wasn’t on yet.

“So we’re lined up like cattle before the slaughter,” Josiah said. “What now? I don’t care for a bullet ‘tween the eyes.”

Keith closed his eyes and breathed. Shiro spoke in his place. “We’re going to push through. There won’t be any casualties.”

Which was a damned lie. Most of them would die. They could play hide and seek in the elevators and pray the walls were concrete, but that wasn’t a shield. To die, to live, to--no. His hand encircled the metal and squeezed. It brought no relief to the agony balling in his chest. He’d come in with it as a last resort. It was dangerous and stupid but he’d thought, just like he had at the Hacketts’ house, that he’d need a final plan. A backup for his backup. He hadn’t used it then, but this time--this time he would. 

“Don’t follow my lead,” Keith said as the elevator whirred down into the building’s abyss. Shiro turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised. Keith fixed his eyes ahead. The elevator chimed; Shiro opened his mouth to ask what Keith meant. 

Keith strode into the hallway. He yanked the orb from his pocket. It was the size of a clementine, polished yet pitted, and inside was a concoction of materials. He pressed a thumb into the centre divot. The button clicked. He whipped it to the left. Several voices raised in panic. It wasted the second they’d had to run.

It wasn’t identical to what he’d had at the Hacketts’. That one had been crude and primitive, fashioned from twisted nails and gunpowder stolen from discarded bullets. This was sleek, built with care by him and Pidge. She hadn’t known he’d go rogue, but she had to have suspected. It was what he always did when the going got tough.

A hail of shrapnel ripped the guards apart. Keith spun on his heel, raised his assault rifle, and ripped through the too-thin metal walls the other side hid behind. The series of cracks deafened him. 

Shiro lunged after him. Keith didn’t wait. His stride was clipped and quick. He didn’t duck and wait, as that would only trap them in a shoot-out. His instincts took over. Decisions his brain should have considered were made in milliseconds. Shoot to the right. The man was hidden behind the filing cabinet. The other one, hair red as Mars, lunged at him, knife in hand.

He took her out with the butt of his rifle and put a bullet in her head. 

Behind him, Shiro shouted, calling his name desperately. But Keith didn’t stop. The chant was fire to him: he couldn’t stop, because if he stopped, they died, and if they died, it would once again be his fault, his problem, another display of cowardice and ineptitude for the world to sneer at. He couldn’t run again. 

“Keith, stop!” Shiro shouted, but all Josiah did was laugh. Laugh, and go to his side.

Josiah leaned in as they mowed down a trio of guards hidden, waiting, in a side room. “Don’t look at him, boy,” he said. “You don’t need cowards holding you back.”

Shiro didn’t hear what Josiah said. That was for the best. Keith found himself swallowing down more rage, choking him like sea water, as unending as the ocean’s currents.  _ Fuck _ Josiah. Every problem he’d ever had came back to Josiah. 

‘You don’t need cowards holding you back’? Josiah could go first. His march continued through the halls. Far behind him, he heard gunfire as the Empire’s soldiers hurried to pin them between two advancing fronts--but they’d assumed Keith had stopped. He hadn’t.

Someone tried to lob a grenade around the corner. Keith lunged forward, slamming it with his foot as Shiro once again shouted his name; the grenade bounced back. The soldiers yelled, scattering. Some, in panic, came into his line of fire. Others skittered away, like insects faced with light. Keith swung around the corner, aimed, and turned one man’s head into a gorey horseshoe. At his feet, two bodies spasmed, going through their final death throes. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Shiro staring. Blood had drained from Shiro’s face, turning the golden skin a sallow shade. His dark eyes were round, bulging, disbelieving. Warm blood drenched Keith’s fine leather shoes. The laces wouldn’t be salvageable.

Keith wanted to say they’d done this before. It wasn’t the first slaughter Keith had led, and Shiro had been beside him for most of them. Lions were meant to be methodical, logical, cold. Why, then, did Shiro feel like coals in a fire? Why did he look so confused and stricken? 

The heat in Keith had dissipated, draining like pus from a wound. All that was left was the sense of ice that pervaded his body. This was it; this was final. If Shiro had an ounce of hesitation, it meant the cross-country trip had been for nothing. Shiro hadn’t learned to let go of the past and forge his own way. He’d only learned to grip the sand of memory tighter in his hands.

He didn’t realize the grains escaped, granule by granule. Memory meant nothing in the end. Keith wanted to say that to Shiro, but there was work to be done. 

The bottom level of the building was a square. Hallways wrapped around a fortified centre, one that had a single door. The centre’s walls were made of thick steel, far too strong for any gun to break through. GalTech technology kept the meeting generals from view. But if anyone from the Kingdom reached the door far at the other end of the halls, it would take seconds to slaughter them.

The floor was big enough for thirty employees to work. Little labs were tucked into the hallways’ outer walls. Darkness peered out from behind the glass--behind splatters of blood that Keith smelled. The halls stank of copper, salt, and shit. 

The final wave did not come as a tsunami. It came as a trickle. Two pale-faced guards huddled in front of the doors. Everyone else was dead, or far behind, trying to stop the march of the Kingdom’s phalanx. There was nothing the two guards could do.

One dropped his gun and ran for it. The other straightened his back, held his head high as he looked down his broad nose with visible disdain. He opened his mouth to speak. Keith shot him in the neck.

Blood sprayed out. Keith side-stepped the pulsing fountain. Behind the man, the only door waited. It was metal, its glass thickened to block bullets, while a series of numbers were etched in black.

ROOM 48 - BOARDROOM - GALTECH INDUSTRIES

Keith raised his assault rifle, aimed it at the door knob, and began to shoot. The first dozen bullets did little: they were a pointed hammer on a rock, chipping away but never shattering. But the sheer number of bullets forced the metal back, tearing it, then falling way to an opening. Keith didn’t reach for it. 

Someone waited on the other side. Did they have a knife or a gun? The latter was of more concern. Keith aimed next for the hinges. Someone began to shoot out from the hole he’d created, but they couldn’t quite get the angle to hit Keith. Shiro came to a panting halt beside him. Keith gave a sharp, wordless noise; it startled Shiro from his stare at Keith. He saw the little hole and jerked back, into the cover the wall provided.

The door was in a recess big enough to fit a person. It hindered the frantic shooter behind the door. It let Keith peek around the side, shoot at the hinges for several seconds, and duck out by the time the gun re-aimed. Shiro, opposite Keith, took over the task. The gun twitched from side to side, but the hinges gave, one by one.

Shiro said nothing to him. Josiah waited further down the hall, guarding them with a cocky smirk on his face. Arrogance had straightened Josiah’s back. Spite forced out laugh after laugh as the Empire’s soldiers struggled to fight back. Keith wished for silence, cold and stark, but the basement was a charnel house, full of warm blood and hotter tears.

The door gave. Was it the sheer force of the bullets, or had the generals ripped it open? There was no time to check. Keith lunged out from his cover, half-crouched; his finger squeezed the trigger.

How many bullets were in a gun? For his assault rifle, he had a hundred. Typical magazines were thirty at most, but he’d known the work to be done was long and the enemies many. But as he fired into the armoured and armed generals, he realized he might not have enough for a full fire-fight. A woman whipped a chair at him; he ducked and jinked to the right, barrelling into the room as someone sprayed an automatic pistol in his direction. The attacker was smart enough to stop as Keith ringed around them, his patent leather shoes leaving behind a trail of gore.

From the door, Shiro began to shoot. Two generals fell before they realized they were pinned in. Keith spun on his heel, fired two shots, and watched three generals fall. His mind--frantic, panicked, but  _ silent _ \--managed to guess there were a dozen generals. Their figures cleared in his mind from oval shadows to sudden detail.

He knew them. He’d seen some of them. There, behind the crowd, was Sendak; Sendak, whose eyes were wide and pupils narrowed, a gun in his hand as he aimed at Keith. Keith threw himself into a lunge and slide. Behind him, a gun fired as he slipped under a table. The white walls whirled around him, smearing to a cloudy sky tinged red by a setting sun.

The knees of his pants were wet and sticky from blood.

The fight passed in a blur. He heard the cracks of guns and the screams, wet moans, and death rattles. Fists lashed out at him; others were the butts of guns, smacking into his wiry frame, sending him into a stagger. But he threw himself into the fight with a speed he’d rarely attained, fuelled by anger and panic. He fought back on pure instinct. There was no time to think five steps in the future. The generals were seasoned fighters, had known each other for years, and Keith was a lone thin man.

Someone put a knife through his shoulder. When they tried to twist it, Keith threw himself at them and knocked the man to the ground. Above, bullets began to rain down. Josiah was yelling something. Keith couldn’t hear what. His ears rang. The knife buried deeper into his shoulder. The man below him-- _ Sendak _ \--snarled and spoke.

Keith watched his lips move. He didn’t know what the man was saying. White teeth flashed in a bared savage grin. Sendak grappled to yank the knife free, to go for Keith’s throat, but Keith let himself fall back, off Sendak. Without the knife staunching the blood, it spilled free, dampening his suit. His mind spun. Sendak jabbed out.

Keith tried to twist and scramble to his feet. The knife clipped his thigh. For a moment, his breathing hitched: had it hit a tendon? But no, it’d only hit the meat of his flesh. He knew that when his legs propelled him into a cluster of thrown and discarded chairs. Sendak’s yell burst through the ringing in his ears. 

“Whore!”

_ Uncreative _ . Keith smashed into the chairs, toppling over them before he landed in a sprawl. Sendak crawled after him, too afraid of being shot to stand up, and swore when Keith pushed up against the chair, tightening the barricade. 

Josiah entered the room, prowling from fallen general to fallen general. Shiro waited by the door. In seconds, Sendak would knife him in the back. Who would he call?

“Shiro!” Keith yowled. The chairs behind him squealed as Sendak pressed into them; his hand searched for a way through the snarl of chairs and into Keith’s back. “Shiro, left--”

The chairs gave. They clattered around him. A shadow rose--and a crack echoed in the room. The shadow fell away. Keith twisted. His shoulder shrieked in agony. Blood covered the white chairs in ruby gore. Sendak lay sprawled on the ground, insensible. Was he dead or just dying?

“Keith!” Shiro knocked away corpses and chairs. He held his gun in a single hand. “Keith?”

Keith swallowed. “I’m here.” He didn’t have the fire Shiro did. “... Thank you.”

Shiro kicked away a chair. It clattered over Sendak’s prone form. “We need to get out of here,” was all Shiro said. He jabbed out his free hand. It was dusted in gunpowder that blood turned to a paste. “They’ll have sent out an alarm while we were breaking the door down. You can walk?”

It wasn’t a question, though, not really. It came out as a command, strict and harsh. Fury tightened Shiro’s features, turning his usually furrowed brow into something pale yet dark. Keith had fucked up. There was no way around it. Sendak’s attack had knocked sense back into him, even as fury and panic festered in his mind’s wounds.

“I can,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if that was even true. Shiro grabbed his hand when he outstretched it; Keith was yanked to his feet. His gun hung loose in his grip. “The other soldiers--?”

“Keeping the Empire’s dregs bottled up.” Shiro turned away from Keith to put in a series of three bullets into any still-twitching bodies. “I think they’re pinned.” His jaw tightened. “We have to either get them out and get caught by cops, or leave them.”

“We’re not leaving them,” Josiah snapped. 

Shiro didn’t even look at him. “We don’t have a choice.”

“We came here because  _ he _ \--” and here Josiah jabbed a gnarled finger at Keith-- “asked us to. He talked about the pasts, loyalty, and blazes of glory, and now you’re going to leave my people behind because it’s  _ inconvenient _ ?”

“It’s not like that,” Keith said. Shiro looked at him, his eyes swirling with emotions Keith couldn’t name. “If we all get taken in, we can’t get any of them  _ out _ . We need Althea’s pull and to get that, the Empire needs to be out of the picture.”

Josiah’s eyes met his. “You’re a fucking selfish coward.”

Keith flinched. What did he even say to that? It was true. Keith was fine with abandoning those who’d come at his call, all so he could keep working for Althea. Working  _ with _ Shiro. The Hand had always lived and died with each other. Keith had broken that vow--he’d broken it, and the Hand had almost had him locked away for it. Now, once again, he was breaking that vow.

Shiro stepped between them. Shiro’s suit was less bloody. The back like the colour of ink. “We’re  _ thinking _ , Josiah. You’re letting your emotions get in the way. The longer we’re here, the faster the cops get here. And if we go to rescue the Morettis and the rest of the Hand, we’re increasing our chances of getting caught along with them. So you can either come with us and get your soldiers out, or you can go to them and we’ll have to get you out too.”

Keith couldn’t see Josiah. He didn’t need to to sense the rage boiling in the man. “You’ve changed, Keith. And not for the better.” Keith closed his eyes as Josiah walked away from them. Distant gunshots punctuated the clack of his boots.

A hand touched Keith’s shoulder. “We need to leave,” Shiro said. His voice didn’t have Josiah’s ice, but there was heat in it. When Keith opened his eyes, he saw the smouldering rage in Shiro’s.

Keith stood. There were shouts and yells now, ruining the empty silence of the meeting room. “How?” Keith asked, because that was the obvious question.

Shiro shook his head. “I don’t know. We make it up as we go. You keep an eye on my back. I don’t want you  _ ever _ doing something like your assault again. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Keith blurted out. But Shiro wasn’t a  _ sir _ . He was Shiro. Commander, yes, and leader of the Lions, but why did Keith cringe inside at the visible anger? Keith had done well at leading the charge. It’d been risky, sure, but no more risky than anything else they’d ever done. Why should he be nervous? Disappointing Shiro didn’t matter. He’d seen Keith’s grotty underbelly, and he’d seen Shiro at his worst. Going in guns-blazing--that was nothing. It meant nothing. He’d killed the generals after getting to the meeting room before the cops arrived. Sure, they were probably going to lose the Morettis’ soldiers and the Hand, but that had been highly likely in the first place.

Everything was  _ fine _ , he told himself as he followed Shiro at a light jog. A bit messy, but fine. There were still seventy other soldiers to help them, the generals were dead, and he and Shiro would escape and rally those seventy to save their comrades. The earlier thought that he’d fucked up tailed him, though, as did Shiro never turning back to look at him.

The shouts down the other side of the hall weren’t any clearer--but they did hear bullhorns and sirens, and Keith knew Josiah would be captured. He kept glancing behind. Cops never appeared, but their spectre shadowed his mind. 

When footsteps echoed from ahead, Keith followed Shiro into a bathroom. It was small and ugly, sterile white with greyish fixtures, and it forced them together. People charged on by as he and Shiro waited in the dark, even their desperate breaths soft. It occurred to Keith that their shoes would have trailed blood--but either their run had dried it or scraped it off, or the police thought it was just another part of the charnel house they’d entered, because they didn’t stop.

Keith tried to focus on his breathing. If he didn’t even it out, he’d get winded, and if he got winded, that meant a stitch in the side and--

Shiro’s hands clapped against Keith. He slammed Keith against the wall, between the sink and the hand dryer. They bumped the switch; the light half turned on. The dim light was a bluish white. Shiro leaned over him, his gun forgotten on the ground. His fingers dug into Keith’s shoulders. Keith forced back a cry. Blood still flowed from Sendak’s attack.

“What were you  _ thinking _ ?” Shiro hissed.

The instinctive words shouldn’t have been  _ fuck you _ . He pushed them back, swallowed, and spoke. “I was doing what I had to.”

“What you had to?” Shiro stared at him. 

Keith jutted out his chin. He grabbed Shiro’s hand that pressed against his shoulder. There was too much strength there for Keith to just shove him away, but he pulled at the hand, lessening the pressure against his wound. Blood made the touch sticky.

“Fuck you,” Keith said, announciating both words with great care. “I got us through this faster than you ever would have.”

Shiro jerked back. It released the pressure off his shoulder completely. “It isn’t about  _ me _ , Keith. None of this is. You ran ahead like--like you had nothing to lose. One lucky shot, one mistake, and you’d have died.” He breathed out, the sound shuddering. “You didn’t even look back.”

Keith slumped against the wall. “... I don’t want to talk about this.”

Shiro didn’t have room to step back. Their breaths mingled. The cold air of the bathroom sent a shiver down Keith’s spine. They were close--close enough to touch, to feel, to taste. Shiro’s sweat lingered on his senses, but Keith pulled back, trying to shrink away from him. He didn’t want to talk about it. It was emotional and pathetic and not at all what he should be feeling. He should be riding high on having destroyed the enemy. He should be kissing Shiro, his hands running over the solid planes of his body as the police scrambled to secure the building, unaware that two Lions were free from their cages.

All Keith wanted to do was talk about it.


	9. Chapter 9

How did someone escape a cop-infested building with one set of elevators up? It was surprisingly simple. They stayed in the bathroom, their heat shared, while the police did an initial investigation. When the cops came to their bathroom door to check if it was open, Shiro held the door knob in place. After the police’s assessment that the bottom floor was ‘clean’ of assailants, it became necessary to investigate the scene. 

The investigation lasted a small eternity. But people drifted off to other portions of the building--to talk to arrived building managers, GalTech, the media. With the descending swarm of reporters, the halls emptied. He and Shiro slunk out in silence, still armed. No one was guarding the bottom of the elevators. But there was something even better, though:

Packets of forensic kits were at the elevator doors. The techs had been too tired to lug everything with them. Inside those kits were folded white suits. They slipped their bloodied guns under the piles, pulled out suits, and slipped them on. When they took the elevator, they stepped out as just more unfamiliar faces.

One of the cops stared at them. “What’s got you two coming up?”

Shiro shrugged. “It’s three in the morning. We need coffee. You want anything?”

They did. Four blacks, two frappuccinos, and an iced green tea. The last earned faces as the man defended his choice as ‘healthy’ while still having caffeine. Shiro and Keith left them to argue amongst each other as they left the building. Outside, they were just another face in the crowd. Slightly interesting as coming from the scene, but when neither of them stopped for the first few questions, the reporters migrated to other targets.

They walked in the direction of the coffee shop. It was closed, not that any of the cops knew that. It wasn’t like they came to the area often. In the parking lot, he and Shiro called a cab. Their white technician suits went into a dumpster, and they waited in silence. Keith tried to figure out how to hide his bleeding. In the end, he took off his coat and used a ripped off part of the tech suit to seal off his thigh wound. He’d leave stains on the driver’s car, but they had the cash to make up for it.

The driver took one look at them and gaped. Shiro had to give him two hundred before he let them into the car. “We’re technicians heading home,” Shiro said. 

The driver nodded, eyes like dinner plates. “Sure,” he replied, though he didn’t believe a word of it. It took another two hundred to get him to start the car. By the time they were back in the foundry district, they were out a grand. Shiro didn’t pay him to keep quiet: he instead leaned into the car’s front window and uttered a string of quiet threats that forced the man’s pale face into something sheet-white.

They returned to the steel plant. The foundry district didn’t get heavy traffic after twelve. By then, everyone was home asleep. Keith tried to relax. The tension bunched his torn muscles, though he knew it was unlikely they’d be attacked. The Empire was reeling. The generals were dead. In a few hours, they’d be striking at the Empire’s foundation. All of New Meridian would be paralyzed as war broke out at every street corner.

The steel plant was dark. The doors were locked--all except for the back door, its lock picked and shattered days ago. Shiro didn’t hold it open for Keith. They climbed the stairs in silence. 

No one was there. Not in the entire building. Computers were gone. Beds were missing. Keith called out for people, but no one replied. He searched for blood. He found it in small puddles, around stairs and cover in halls; some decorated the walls like Pollock paintings. 

There were no bodies, even though they looked for them. In the machinery, in the alcoves, beneath equipment, even in the dumpsters outside. Nothing. They regrouped in the attic. Shiro looked pale in the moonlight spilling through the windows.

“It had to have happened when we were gone,” Shiro said, voice weak. “I don’t know--why would they come in here?”

Because the Empire had known it’d win. They couldn’t have known about the attack on their generals, but they’d decided to risk a shootout at the foundry. Keith felt his shoulders slump. “... They couldn’t have killed everyone. There were too many of us. They carried out the bodies, but it’d have taken more than a few hours to get over a hundred corpses out.”

Keith walked towards the window.  The clouds were silver; the moon’s white light frightened them away from the moon itself, though they crept along its edges. New Meridian’s lights were dim in the foundry district, and it let him admire a black, starless sky. His hand rested against the wooden sill.

Paper brushed against his hand. He glanced down. Tucked between the window’s lip and the sill was a note. He grabbed it. It was folded only once, and a droplet of blood speckled the crease. The writing jerked across the lined paper, its edges torn in a rush to hide it.

_ Empire came. We lost. Lions going below ground. Don’t know where everyone else is going.  _

_ Try not to die. -Lance _

And that was that. The Morettis and remaining Hand were missing, likely with most of them dead. Pidge, Hunk, Lance--who knew if they’d actually escaped? For all Keith knew, they’d fled down the stairs, into the alleys, and been killed too. There was no way of knowing. Even the absence of Pidge’s equipment meant nothing. The Empire had hauled out a company of corpses.

Shiro shifted behind him. Keith didn’t know if he wanted Shiro to be close to him. He swallowed sharply, the dryness of his mouth pressing pins into the flesh. “The other Lions might have escaped,” he managed. “The Empire took the foundry--anyone left from the Hand or Morettis is in hiding.” Keith half-turned and held out the note. 

Shiro didn’t take it. “We need to get out of here.”

“To go where?” Keith’s voice threatened to crack. “We don’t have  _ anyone _ , Shiro. We’d need to leave the Americas if we wanted a new start. You want to rebuild everything in a Paris shack? And what if GalTech traces us?” He yanked on his mind’s reins.  _ Stop. _ “... We don’t even know if Allura’s alive.”

Shiro watched him from the shadows. “We accepted that when we started the trip, Keith.”

“Because there were possibilities then.” Keith turned back to the window. “There isn’t anything now. We can’t ask the Morettis for another dozen operatives. The Hand’s destroyed, and Josiah’s captured. I don’t see any aces up our sleeves, Shiro. All we’ve got is each other.”

“Isn’t that enough?”  _ Hasn’t that always been enough? _

Keith didn’t know what to say. They balanced on a precipice, the cliff overlooking sharp rocks and tossing waves. His heels clung to the loosening dirt as he swayed back and forth, the wind ripping at his clothes. This was where he had to make a choice. Did he fall back, or leap?

_ It’s a long way down _ , he almost said. But Shiro had never been scared of heights. 

Keith swallowed his fear. “We’ll die. I’m just warning you. We’re going to die if we do this.”

“We were going to die anyway,” Shiro said. “For Allura, on Allura’s orders, under our own stupid willpower: it was just a matter of time. I’d rather burn the Empire to the ground before then.”

Fair enough, he thought. What was worse: dying trying to help a woman who was probably already dead, or dying in a senior’s home, mind lost, body ruined, and spirit broken? It was a cheap thought. It was what every young person thought--that it was better to go out young than dare to age. 

Keith had never thought of what his life would be like when he couldn’t fight. He found it hard to conceptualize, like a dog trying to think of the colour green. Life after forty had no shape; it had no colour or sound. It was a mass of grey, a fog of the mind that jealously defended its secrets.

Somehow, he’d always assumed he’d die before then. Making it to forty would have been a victory. He probably would have drank himself to death the night of the birthday. Shiro could bury him in a pauper’s grave. 

Shiro always lived. That was the one constant of his vague imaginings. Shiro could age. He had a future beyond thuggish enforcement. He’d go into proper management. He might even become Allura’s personal advisor, or manage the East Coast when they reached it, the prodigal son returned to push people like Samuel out of business. 

Keith didn’t feature in those expectations. Shiro would have moved on to a nice woman with a silver spoon as her dowry. Shiro would traffick drugs and kill who needed to be killed, and come home to 2.1 kids, a lovely wife who worked as a lawyer or accountant, and a townhouse in Manhattan. Keith was nowhere. Probably dead.

But Shiro didn’t think the same. Shiro spoke like he’d always expected to go down with Keith. He didn’t know what to make of that: Shiro had family. He had education. He had friends who weren’t addicts, thugs, and people who’d fucked him up for life. Sure, Shiro had problems. But they were problems a bit of therapy could fix, Tony Soprano style. 

Why would anyone want to die with Keith for a cause that was pointless? Did Shiro see nothing left without the Kingdom? Keith almost asked. He wanted to know, but he what would he even do with the answer?

“We’ll need weapons,” Keith finally said.

Shiro’s lips quirked to a half-smile. “We’ll find them somewhere.”

Keith frowned. “And we’ll need information on what to do, plus chaos in New Meridian. We might need allies--”

“There’s nobody but us,” Shiro said. “You’re an arsonist. I’m used to shakedowns. So long as our faces aren’t on the news, we can have this done in a day.”

Keith chewed the inside of his cheek. “... You don’t think the Tongs will help?”

“Not one bit. They did this as a favour to someone who we bargained with. They aren’t going to die for us.”

So there was nothing left. His heart clenched and burned to cinders. “We give this  _ one _ try, Shiro.” This, Keith reflected, coming from a man who’d twirled through the danse macabre only hours ago. Keith valued life: not his own, not that of strangers, only tangentially the Lions’, but completely and utterly Shiro’s. “And if I d--fall, I want--” He shook his head.  _ I want you to leave _ . 

Shiro cocked his head to the side. His smile had turned wry. Yet he didn’t press after Keith. “We can split the remaining cash for our work. We’re both going to need new clothes before we do anything else.”

Shiro would need a tailored suit. Keith would need to pick up a hundred cleaning supplies, some kindling, and gunpowder. Their lives were different, even in their specialities. It placed a solid wall of separation that soothed Keith. Keith was just his second-hand and sometimes-fuck. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less; just a sense of a bond that placed Keith in the frontlines to defend Shiro.

He didn’t want to leave Shiro to dig up the information. Frankly, he didn’t want to go out into New Meridian unarmed. They checked the stashes of weapons throughout the foundry, but there was nothing left. Keith still had his permit, but it’d take longer than a day to get a legal gun in Oregon. 

The money changed hands quickly. Keith got a pistol and a shotgun from a local contact in Chinatown. Shiro was long gone, off to a tailor; Keith bought a sweater, jacket, and a pack of jeans and declared his job done after patching up his two wounds with a bit of Althea medicine. His contact, Yifei, didn’t even speak to him beyond a terse quote for the product. She knew as well as he did that to be seen around him was risky. If she could pretend to not know better, the Empire might only take a hand.

He had a concealed carry permit. He tried to keep that in mind as he slipped the gun into a shoulder holster--the opposite shoulder than where he’d been injured, wrapped in gauze and linen bandages after a thorough cleaning. He prayed there were no bullet shards. Blood poisoning was the last thing they needed to deal with. 

He couldn’t mix chemicals at the foundry. That was lost, likely monitored now; Shiro and Keith were unaccounted for, and Keith wondered when the Empire would release their faces to the news. In a metropolis of several dozen million people, it’d be a trial for anyone to find them. It was paradoxical, in a way. If it’d been Clarence, they’d have been spotted within minutes. There was nowhere to hide, after all, and news travelled fast.

But in an ocean of people, of every race, colour, and creed, Keith faded into the background in his jeans and hoodie. News would spread, sure, but it’d be crowded out just as fast by accidents and other murders. Keith’s face would blur in everyone’s minds, washed away by a tide of work, family, and the constant din from every TV about worse things happening.

A massacre was not a tragedy to the media. It was a  _ challenge _ . What could they do to top it? What underbelly could they shine their light on to horrify and titillate their audience? The month had started with Allura’s death, then the spotlight moved to the Empire’s purgings. Now, it was the massacre in Aiqi. 

The attack at Zachariah’s mansion would overshadow that. He’d sworn it to himself. When he had bags of ingredients, he found the nearest cheap hotel and ducked inside. He was still in a district that the New Meridian camera system wasn’t in. Zachariah’s palace was near the downtown, atop a hill, covering an entire block. He’d bought it from one of the city’s magnates, Thomas Deere. Deere’s family had been in the city since it was founded, and they’d built their fortune on the fact they held deeds to large stretches of what had once been worthless land--and now were worth a hundred kings’ coffers.

Zachariah had destroyed him, bankrupting the Deeres in financial combat over the city’s development. Deere had fled up north to Seattle. It was, Keith thought, a case of living by the sword and dying by the same blade. 

The receptionist gawked at his bags. The little hotel was a slim converted townhouse. It was a sliver between the fingers of a rundown department store and a car park. “Do you need help, sir?” the man asked. His eyes were owlish behind his round glasses.

Keith hauled the bags higher on his arms. The paper handles dug into his skin, turning it from lightly tanned, courtesy of the road trip, to snow white. “No,” Keith said shortly before he began to climb the steep steps. There were four rooms to the place: two on each floor, crammed together like seeds in a pomegranate.

His room had a greyish carpet and a rickety bed that balanced half on crates. It was substandard for the wealthy, but decent for New Meridian’s poor. In the poor, grungy hotel, he set up shop. There were three plugs, but Keith had bought several extension cords and a pair of kettles.

Nobody came to bother him. The electricity of the building didn’t short out, which he called a small blessing. The hotel’s electricity bill would be steep for the day. 

Some ingredients needed to be boiled down; others demanded dilution or mixing. It was a complex chemistry that relied on passed along wisdom, practice, and whatever ripoffs of the Anarchist Cookbook-genre were floating around. Keith had been taught everything from car explosives to burning buildings down for insurance. There was nothing he didn’t know about fire. He’d once had the scars to prove it, before he’d had them removed as a Lion. Scars were easy markers for identification, after all, and Althea had cure-alls for everything. 

Shock and awe was their only tactic. Subterfuge wouldn’t work. Zachariah’s building had a hundred guards, two camera systems in case one went out, the cops on speed-dial, and enough weapons for an army. Guards were identified through eye biometrics and a scanner--Althea brand, because Althea dominated health and tech, but neither of them had access to Althea’s systems to sneak in.

The bombs would have to take out the front gate. Of course, before that, they’d have to take out the several dozen guards at the front--with Shiro on a sniper rifle and Keith cruising by in a car to lob a series of explosives, it would hopefully be easier than what Keith feared. He stirred and sprinkled and slathered substances on substances, the motions so familiar to him he felt like he was back in Clarence. Being a Lion had meant others made the weapons for him. At most, he’d direct the burning of a particularly important building, but he’d traded in the rubber gloves for a Beretta. Now, back at the bottom, he found himself without much--a little bit of money, mostly drained by now; a pistol and shotgun, cheap clothes, and a hotel room to hide in.

The comfort was that he knew Shiro would be doing better. Shiro thrived in every situation. Keith  _ endured _ : without complaint, yes, but he didn’t light up when the pressure came. He grit his teeth and forced his way through. Stubborn, stupid, and a bit empty-hearted--that was Keith. But at least he could make bombs. Even in the most shallow of people, a single talent could redeem them in a time of need. 

Keith wrapped his weapons in bubble-wrap and foam containers. It let him discard several bags, as did shoving his kettles, glass vials, and the like under the bed once they’d cooled in the bathroom’s tub. The room reeked of rancid fat and rot. He opened the single window that overlooked the grey street. High above, rain fell, dotting the window’s panes. 

He breathed in the scent of rain. In this part of New Meridian, there was no soil to give off a loamy fragrance, but he swore still that the rain smelled of summer. Despite the rain, it was warm--warm enough that he was grateful to have ditched his hoodie.

The streets were empty. Those who had work were at work; those who had obligations at home were tucked away from view. Anyone smart was inside, away from the chaos of New Meridian, away from the danger in this side of town. It was grey and dark. Gangs would be roving, and individual muggers waiting in alley shadows.

But here, above the streets, looking down as neon signs flashed, their lights rainbow in the rain, Keith felt a moment of fleeting, temporary peace. Behind him were enough explosives to take out a military base, and accelerants to torch the entire downtown of New Meridian, but here, now, there was nothing but him, his dampening t-shirt, and the rain. He breathed in, searching for calm. 

The tension knotted in his throat. No tears for regrets, he told himself firmly. What was done was done. He should enjoy the moment, breathe in the summer-smoke air, feel the exhaust and crackle of electricity that throbbed through New Meridian’s veins. He hadn’t been born in the city. He had only known it in his twenties. Yet somehow, he’d adopted it like a new creed. New Meridian was everything he’d worked for; it was where everything he knew waited, quiet and patient, for him to return.

All across the United States of America, and all he’d wanted to do was go home. Home, which wasn’t Clarence or Los Angeles. His brain screamed at him to run. Dying in New Meridian would complete the neat circle of his life, but it would still mean dying. 

No more Shiro. No more rain. No more nights at the dock, listening to rope creak and waves lap at the tied up boats. Keith didn’t believe in an afterlife--at least not one that any religion he knew of propounded. The afterlife to him was an absence of everything. No conscious, no life, just a static humming existence as his body returned to the earth and his mind wore away like wind blowing sand from a mound. In an untold number of years, there’d be nothing left of him. Long before then, there wouldn’t be any memory for people to hold on to.

Staying in New Meridian meant a promised kiss from death. But for Shiro’s sake, he’d risk it. 

He packed up his tools in sturdy bags. The room’s clock displayed the time: four in the afternoon, though it looked like eight. It would take two hours to hobble through the city’s traffic to the downtown. Then, alongside Shiro, they would hunker down in the room Shiro had rented in a boutique hotel, one worth five times as much as the place Keith had worked in. At eleven, they’d set up. At midnight, they’d strike.

There was no eagerness in him. Nothing dulled the edge of worry. His heart clenched whenever his mind strayed to the imposing palace that Zachariah hid away in. They were going to die, and die for what? Pride. There were worse things to die for, he knew, but he couldn’t find the fiery enthusiasm Shiro had.

The cabbie who answered his call had a doubtful look pasted on her face. She’d trusted him enough to come, but as he piled in bag after bag, her unease grew. “What’s in those?” she asked finally.

“Shopping,” he said. The doubt worsened. It didn’t matter, though, when he forked over money. She ignored the squeaks of styrofoam in the back as they trundled down the filling streets. The government employees were escaping, while the older students were coming out for light suppers before diving into theatres and clubs. The further into the city they went, the more traffic congealed, clogging the arteries that Keith had known would block.

He’d put the bags inside bags and tied them as tight as they’d go. Still, the cab soon reeked of chemicals and acidic powders. He rolled down the windows. All that came in was acrid smog. It was better than letting the cabbie know what he really carried, but his chest still ached from holding in a cough.

He’d given a terse address to the cabbie. She followed it perfectly, though her lips had twisted to a strict thin shape, as though she knew Keith didn’t belong there. She was right, though Shiro would disagree. Keith didn’t belong much of anywhere. Even in Clarence, he’d been the delinquent Asian kid, queer as in fuck you, and determined to escape the smothering effects of his upbringing.

Would he have been raised like Shiro if his parents had stayed? Or would it have only fucked him up more to know he’d killed his mother by being born, and that his father, a dead-beat wanderer, likely hated him for tying him down? His stomach tied itself into knots. There wasn’t a good answer. It was a what-if and what might have been, and neither of those mattered in the stark neon of New Meridian.

The hotel Shiro had chosen even had an awning. It was ridiculously quaint, fitting in with the rest of the downtown. Outside of the area, it’d have been gawked at and likely defaced during the night. Here, though, there were dozing guards and security cameras. Keith kept his head down, fiddling with his bags as though he weren’t trying to avoid detection.

The hotel was the Costa Del Sol. It had a Spanish flair--whitewashed stone, rustic marble, even adobe though processed through a dozen artisans before the upper crust of New Meridian would dare touch it. The hotel’s uniforms were smart with blouses, skirts, and ties for all. The staff was all women. Keith knew that wasn’t a coincidence. By the clientele around him, Costa Del Sol operated to flatter the egos of aging businessmen. None of the girls were ever told to touch the men, but they smiled flirtatiously and giggled at poor jokes. Keith knew that, in the back, they shuddered and laughed among each other at the balding, drooping, and aged men who deluded themselves for a weekend that somehow they had a chance with leggy blondes and sleek brunettes.

The woman at reception who welcomed him had a honey-smooth smile. Her light hair contrasted sharply with her umber skin. “How can I help you sir?” The pep in her voice was saccharine. 

Keith pulled his bags up. Styrofoam squeaked. “I’m here for a Mr. Murasaki.”

Her eyebrows raised. “You’re Mr. Akabeni?”

Keith nodded sharply. He didn’t doubt those names meant something, but he didn’t speak Japanese. The woman beamed at him. Her name tag read ‘Alice’. Alice led him to the elevators after making a token effort to take at least one of the bags from him. But Keith knew better than to do that. If he’d had to, he’d have taken his keycard with his teeth. Thankfully, he was able to take it with a wobbling, outstretched hand, weighed down by a trio of IEDs wrapped in bubble wrap and styrofoam.

He carted his armoury to the elevator, squeezed in, and tried to ignore Alice’s smirk. She thought what she wanted to think. Keith was obviously a kept man come back from high-end shopping. She didn’t recognize the logos on his bags, so she assumed they were expensive. She didn’t know they were from a dilapidated hardware store in the slums.

Shiro’s room was on floor four. Gilt numerals declared it ‘67’. Keith knocked with his elbow, wincing when it hit his funny bone. Shiro took his time answering. Keith heard the door creak as Shiro leaned against it, peering through the peephole to see who disturbed him. When the door opened, Keith tried to push past Shiro without saying hello.

But habit, guilt, whatever it was--it pushed a gentle  _ hi _ through his lips. He angled his gaze down as a warm hand touched his shoulder. It was heavy; the fingers brushed against the knots in his muscles. Keith prayed Shiro would look away.

He didn’t, though. “Sit on the bed,” Shiro told him firmly. Keith hobbled forward; the moment he was free of Shiro’s grip, he dumped his bags on the bed and went to the window. Shiro sighed behind him. Paper bags crinkled and styrofoam squeaked. In the mirror, he saw Shiro’s reflection pondering over the weapons.

“It’ll be enough,” Keith said quietly. He focused his eyes on what lay beyond the window, not inside. There, across the street, was the entrance to Zachariah’s palace.

The Swansong Grove Mansion stretched up towards the sky. The downtown wasn’t full of towers and skyscrapers. Everything was traditional, old, tidy. It didn’t have the chaos of the rest of New Meridian. In the placid downtown, the Mansion’s six floors, all with ballroom ceilings, looked like a giant among ants. 

Its style was Tudor revival, sprawling with gardens, ponds, and old trees; its walls were stone, and its gates wrought iron. Black etched the white building’s angles, decorating the surface in complex patterns. The windows facing the front gate were open, spilling out golden light that danced over the rain-damp street. Expensive cars were parked along the streets. In New Meridian, space was too precious to waste on a parking lot or long drive. If Zachariah or his family wanted to leave, they did so at a back entrance or a tunnel that led to a nearby private parking garage.

He caught glimpses of people moving back and forth at the front section’s window peak. Some were dressed in simple suits; a few wore dresses. The lack of servants told him what he needed to know. It was an Imperial meeting. His soldiers had fled to his mansion, hoping for guidance. Zachariah had to be telling them about what had happened at the foundry. The Kingdom’s rebels were dead. Allura was still missing, even though her people spoke like she lived. Most likely, she was dead, and her lieutenants were trying to disguise the fact until it became impossible to deny.

Keith reached up and pressed his palms to his eyes. He breathed out. The air felt cold against his skin, despite the heat boiling in his body. “This is a bad plan,” he said.

Shiro abandoned the bed to come up to Keith. “What’s better?”

“Nothing,” he admitted, “but escaping. We’ve already said no to that, though, haven’t we?”

“We have.” Shiro touched him again, this time at the waist. It was tentative, lighter than the shoulder touch. “... We might die.”

Keith knew, then, what Shiro wanted. Years of adrenaline-fuelled sex had dragged them into such proximity, Keith sometimes wondered what to call their relationship. He let his hands fall and took in a deep breath. He could be dead in an hour--in thirty minutes. The plan meant more than just fighting back. It was a last stand. The Keith of a few weeks ago would have shoved Shiro to the bed and had a bit of fun before dying.

The Keith of now wanted no such thing. The Keith of now wanted to sleep a few thousand years and wake up when the storm had passed. And he knew that, while Shiro would hardly complain if Keith sucked him off, if Shiro knew what Keith was feeling, he woudn’t want any of it. Because while Keith didn’t know  _ what  _ they were, or what they’d experienced even meant, Shiro was Shiro.

He turned, stood tip-toe, and kissed Shiro on the mouth. It was chaste: a simple press of warmth shared between them. He pulled away after and went to the bed. He didn’t touch his weapons; he sat on the edge and slumped in on himself. The panic of vulnerability hounded him.

“I don’t hate you,” he said.

Shiro stopped in front of him a few feet away. “I’d thought not.” He paused. “It’s--it’s good to hear, though.”

Keith rubbed his cheeks. “And you don’t hate me. For what I did.”

“I don’t.”

Keith breathed. The air hitched in his throat. “Good. I’m--I guess I should  _ feel _ like I’m in control, but I don’t. I feel like I’m back in Clarence.”

Shiro stiffened. “I make you feel like that?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, not you. The situation. Josiah.  _ Everything _ but you. You haven’t done anything wrong--”

Shiro reached out and touched Keith’s cheek. “This is about you.” The firmness in his voice startled Keith. “Not me.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Keith tamped down on the fire that edged his voice. “You’re just as fucked up by what happened. You--you deal with it better because you’re used to coming out the other side. Me? I just run from it.”

Across states, through years, to people he’d know in passing, only to be replaced a few years later. There was nothing permanent about his life. Everyone he met went through his life like a fog; every city he lived in, he left with the winds. He didn’t have a home. He had a building where he slept. It was maudlin and pathetic and  _ childish _ , but he’d wanted something. He’d thought that, with Shiro, with the Lions, with the Kingdom, that he might find that space before he died. Now, he was in a sleazy but expensive hotel, the love of his life in front of him, and he couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t say it, because what if Shiro didn’t feel the same? What would Keith do if he gave up that last little bit of control over his life--the control to say  _ no _ , the control to deny himself the worse hurt that might happen? Whatever he felt now would be bliss compared to rejection.

So what did he say? What  _ could _ he say? ‘I love you’ would make what followed miserable. Shiro might like him, but what if he said he didn’t love him? What control would be left if he said yes, and what would be left in the cold of rejection? 

The thoughts had plagued him for far longer than the Kingdom’s fall. They’d haunted him in the afterglow of sex; they’d dogged him as they prepared to massacre enemies. Shiro’s touch set alight his skin. Shiro breathed out misting sighs, and Keith wished he could capture them in a kiss--not a heated kiss, but something gentle. Something familiar, not something seeking. 

Shiro didn’t speak. The silence gaped like an unhinged jaw. The snake in the room hissed unsaid words, the feelings he’d wrapped in steel threatening to crack. This was it. Keith needed to say something--excuses, prayers, a confession of passion,  _ anything _ . 

He swallowed. “I’m sorry.” Shiro arched a brow. “This isn’t the point of why we’re here. We need to focus--”

Shiro sat beside him. The bed didn’t creak--it was too used to sudden jerking weight. His uninjured thigh pressed against Shiro’s. His skin prickled. A strong muscled arm wrapped around his waist. When Shiro pulled him in, Keith felt his heart stop.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged. Sucked dick? Been fucked? Oh, he knew the dates and times. But Shiro had never hugged him. Hell, Keith had never asked him to. It was intimate, and Keith would never have called their relationship intimate. Pornographic, sure, and a bit codependent on his end, but not intimate.

Shiro stroked his hair. He was hesitant and light, as though afraid that Keith would shatter. Keith stiffened. He wanted to press close, but he feared that’d send Shiro jerking back. “It’s…” Shiro cleared his throat. “It’s not going to be all right.”

Keith grimaced. “I know.”

“But it can get better.” Shiro leaned in and breathed in Keith’s scent. Keith froze as Shiro sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Even if this is the end. Just--Keith, tell me what’s happening.”

His skin itched. He should be melting into Shiro’s arms, swooning over his touch, but instead Keith felt like ten thousand eyes were on him. What should he say? He reached into his chest and pulled free the sinew of his heart, trying to thread together a tapestry that could say what he felt, because his tongue refused to. 

_ I love you. I’m afraid you don’t love me. I’m afraid of losing control, and I’m terrified of losing everything that I earned and what could have been. _

Shiro’s dark eyes were warm when he looked into them. Keith might die in an hour, cut down as he bombed the mansion’s front. Or, knowing the world, he could walk into the bathroom, trip, and die. Life was short. That was part of his angst, wasn’t it? That life passed as quickly, and that he’d had nothing to hold on to--until Shiro. 

He had no control over what was happening. He could fight it; he could try to redirect the river of fate. But if a bullet came, fate could put it through his skull and not even care about what it stole. So if he accepted that their mission to kill Zachariah was a march towards death, why not accept that what he felt for Shiro was just as pointless, just as uncontrolled?

How did you say  _ I love you _ when the words tasted like arsenic? He was self-destructive at the best of times, he reasoned. So he’d swallow it down and pretend his limbs didn’t shake as the poison wracked his body. 

“I love you,” Keith said.

Shiro froze. His hand rested at the base of Keith’s skull. The air vanished from Keith’s lungs. He wanted to suck in a deep breath, but his body numbed. Shiro’s fingers curled against his warm flesh, fingertips pressing in. Their chests were inches apart. Their legs were pressed together. 

Shiro tilted his head down. HIs eyes were wide as full moons. “Keith?”

He hadn’t heard, that was the only answer. Keith could take it back. The sour taste in his mouth grew. Turn away from the sun, he thought, and maybe he’d save his heart from being torn out. He licked his lips as he furrowed his brow. The words came out ill-shapen, lopsided, almost a croak. “I love you.”

“I--” Shiro shook his head sharply. “As a friend.”

Keith’s heart clenched. “I fucking wish.”

“How long?” Shiro demanded.

Keith refused to shrink back. “Months. Years. Does it matter?”

“It does,” was the reply, “because we’re going to die in a few hours, and we only--it only comes out  _ now _ .”

This time, he did shrink back. “What do you mean?” Had he ruined their friendship in the final hours together? He shouldn’t have said anything. The weight that’d lifted from his shoulders for a moment, but all he’d done was rip apart what he’d had.

Shiro’s hand pulled from his skull, tracing the lines of his face. Fury boiled in Shiro’s eyes, but when he pulled back, he didn’t turn it on Keith: he hunched inward, his breaths ragged. Keith refused to pull away. He reached out and pressed a hand to Shiro’s hand.

“I know it’s not right,” Keith said desperately. “I know--I know I have the world’s worst goddamn timing. But God, if I’m going to die, I may as well die with this out. Hate me if you want.”

“ _ Hate _ you?” Shiro’s jaw tightened. “Why would I hate you?”

Keith stared. “Because I shouldn’t feel like that. I know you don’t.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Shiro’s words were strangely tentative. Keith felt his heart skip a beat. “Because you’re not the type to settle down. This was without strings--we said that at the start. I was stupid and got attached. Don’t--don’t fucking try to let me down gently, Shiro. We were fuck buddies.” Shiro buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. Keith knew better than to think he was crying. “Okay, stop laughing or I’ll rip your left nut off.”

Shiro stopped hiding it. The sounds that came out were ragged and sharp, snagging like wool on shards of bone. “This, fucking  _ now _ . Keith, I--” He swallowed. “Don’t make me say it.”

Keith didn’t know if this was better. If Shiro felt like this too, how much time had they wasted? What did that mean for either of them--a pair of fairies playing made men? Keith turned his eyes on to the window. Twilight was long gone. It was dark, lit only by the mansion’s lights. 

“Say it,” Keith finally said. “I had to.”  _ Had to _ . As though any of this was an obligation. Keith had chosen to say something. He’d chosen to let his feelings grow. The seed had sprouted of its own accord, but he had tended the garden diligently. 

Shiro’s hands fell from his face. He stared out the window. Moments passed before Shiro reached out, placing a hand on Keith’s thigh. It was tentative and light, as though he was afraid of Keith--or the feel of his warmth. Keith saw himself in that. The body’s heat allured the mind more than any perfume. 

“I don’t want to put a name on it,” Shiro hedged.

Keith shook his head before he turned to face Shiro. Shiro flinched, though he refused to cower back. “You’re the fuck who took classes on poetry at boarding school. You know what to say.” He frowned, his brow furrowing. “... You know best what it is. Better than I do.”

_ I need to hear it, _ Keith almost said. But that was needy and pathetic, more like a love-stricken teen. Shiro could refuse to name the feeling, and Keith would go to his grave not knowing, which would probably be for the best. Let it die, let it rot, and then let it lay beneath a graveyard’s dirt until it was forgotten.

He opened his mouth to take back the words. Shiro spoke first. “I love you. That’s it. I’ve loved you since the first day we met. You were--you  _ are _ \--beautiful. But you’re sharp as any of your knives. I didn’t know what to make of you. I still don’t, not that it matters.”

Keith slumped. His mouth had turned to one of the desert roads they’d travelled weeks ago. Shiro loved him. He’d loved him for  _ years _ , just like Keith had loved Shiro. They’d wasted so much fucking time. They were going to be dead soon, and neither of them would--what? Go to an amusement park together? Get ice cream? Silly dates sounded so fucking stupid with enough explosives to level a city block a foot away. They were killers. Killers didn’t go to ice cream parlours and get milkshakes. 

The best he could have hoped for were lazy days in private. Maybe the occasional gentle touch when nobody was watching. It wouldn’t have been a teen movie. There’d be no songs or ferris wheels, no last-minute reunion, just what they could slip between the eagle eyes of their subordinates. 

If alcohol had been around, he’d have drowned himself in it. In the end, he hadn’t missed much. He would have been unhappy at playing pretend. It was one thing to be discreet and private; it was another to be each other’s dirty secret. How many soldiers would they lose if it came out they were in love? Fucking was excusable. People liked writing off shit as the result of just being horny. Love implied some degree of thought and reflection, though. It implied that Shiro and Keith had looked at where their cocks were directing them and had thought it  _ wise _ . Had even thought it good.

Maybe dying would be a better end. Yet even as he thought that, bone-deep terror filled him. It wasn’t a better end. It was  _ the _ end. There wasn’t any coming back. Things didn’t get better. They didn’t get worse. It was surrendering to a status quo. When you were dead, you didn’t have the ability to regret a permanent solution. But up until that moment where your mind passed away and oblivion took over, things had a chance to change. Salvation could wait over the horizon--or a hot bullet could be barrelling right towards the point between your eyes. Death was checking out from the random chance of life. 

It left carnage behind. He knew that. Death was never painless or clean, and it meant releasing the chance that things could get better--even as the dying saved themselves from things getting worse. Going into the mansion meant putting his life on the line for the Kingdom when he’d just found out that there was something to dream of. 

What did he say to Shiro? Shiro looked gutted, as though he’d taken some of his self and shaped it into the confession. Keith breathed once, his eyes drifting closed. “I’m not sure what to do.”

He opened his eyes to catch Shiro’s grimace. “I don’t have answers, Keith. I don’t know what I would have done differently if I’d known.”

Keith did. Shiro was, at his core, soft. He had a backbone, Keith would never deny that, but Shiro was always the one who spared the weak but cowardly, or protected the innocent. Love, to Shiro, meant something. 

And if Keith was honest, it meant something to him too. He was damaged and a bit fucked up, but he’d always wanted love. When he was young, it’d been a chase after something parental--explaining Josiah. But when he’d moved to LA, his horizons had broadened and he’d left behind the tainted idea of parents. In its place, a dull ache had taken root in his chest. 

There was the thought that he should take advantage of their remaining time. They were in love, after all, and death was right around the corner. A soulful kiss or gentle love-making would be poetic and beautiful, wouldn’t it? It’s what would happen in the movies. But Keith felt no heat--just pure resignation. He didn’t want to fuck Shiro, and even the idea of a kiss made him tired.

“I feel like,” Keith said, “all I want to do is sleep.” He shook his head, a wry smile forming on his face. “I’m… I’m glad to know. I’m not sure what it means for us, but I guess this is its own end.”

Shiro reached up to touch Keith’s face. Keith turned into the touch. Shiro’s hand felt solid, slightly rough from calluses. “Better to know than not.” Shiro let his hand fall from Keith’s face. “... Can you--” He shook his head. “Can  _ I _ kiss you?”

Like they’d been teleported into a Jane Austen novel. He’d never read them, but he had seen a movie about it once. He didn’t know how to feel about permission. It was… theoretically good, he supposed. He didn’t like to be grabbed or pushed around. Consent was, as he’d been told demurely in high school, vital. But he didn’t feel like a debutante at the cotillion. He didn’t need someone asking him for a kiss.

Keith leaned over and pressed his lips against Shiro’s. It wasn’t chaste; it wasn’t sexy. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on Shiro’s generous lips. His sigh was deep and exhausted. Shiro let it wash over him, even as his arms wrapped around Keith. Shiro was massive--Keith wasn’t svelte or weedy, but Shiro’s bulk subsumed him. Keith let himself lean into the touch. Through the suit, Shiro exuded heat. Keith only felt cold; his fingers were numb as he grasped Shiro’s jacket, but he forced his way through it. He needed to be in the now, because there was no future.

Shiro stroked his hair and buried his fingers into Keith’s scalp. It almost hurt. He wished it did. When they pulled away from each other, it wasn’t just a physical gap. Keith felt the ice that had threatened to take him over finally numb him.

“We need to get ready,” Keith said as he stood and walked back to the window. He swallowed as he tasted Shiro’s cigarettes and alcohol one his tongue. “You have a car?”

“Nothing armoured.” Shiro didn’t follow him. “I bought it off a broke banker selling her family car on the sly. We don’t have anymore money after this.”

Keith shook his head. “We won’t need it. You’ve got the rifle?”

“On loan from an old friend.” Keith’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t turn the gaze on Shiro. “I pulled out information from a few of Zachariah’s associates. Our faces aren’t on the news yet, and he hasn’t let others know internally.”

“He’s got to be planning something, then.”

Shiro’s reflection in the window shrugged. “He wants us to come to him. We’re the only ones left in New Meridian who’ll fight for the Kingdom. He thinks he has the numbers to not care about any damage we do.”

Keith let his gaze sweep over the mansion. “He’s making a mistake.” 

“I hope so,” was Shiro’s only reply.

Keith’s last meal was a protein bar and a Coke from the machine in the halls. He hadn’t eaten anything that day: maybe, he thought, that explained his ever-worsening mood. But he’d gone for longer with even less, and it wasn’t like they could stop at a diner for a burger and fries. Knowing their luck, they’d be spotted on the cameras and have a shoot-out at the restaurant. 

The car Shiro had bought was parked in an alley. It was a small Jaguar, sleek black with tinted windows and plush leather seats. The license plate was still on. “You pay extra for that?” Keith asked.

Shiro laughed softly. “A little bit. When you’re ready to go, drive by and flash your headlights. Once you throw the first cherry, I can start saying hello.”

Keith took the keys without a smile. He wanted to touch Shiro again, but the numbness kept him behind a pane of glass. The leather felt cool against his jean-covered skin. Rain beaded on the windshield, the remnants of an earlier storm. He breathed deep before he put the key in the ignition.

The start time was midnight. It left Keith thirty minutes to cruise around the district, pretending to be a lost tourist or someone on the prowl for a bit of shady fun. He kept his face angled straight ahead; the cameras would struggle to do facial recognition with only a dark profile. The license plate would turn up the banker, but people loaned their cars to others. The sale wouldn’t be recorded on the system yet.

It left Keith with the sound of new rain, the squeak of windshield wipers, and the pressure against his foot as he looped through the downtown. People were still out. Few, yes, because New Meridian was only safe during the day and when the underworld wasn’t moving--but they were there, huddling under umbrellas, laughing as they ran alongside friends through the rain, illuminated by sleek neon advertising theatre shows and clubs.

A duo of women sat in a restaurant beside a crystalline window. Plates of food surrounded the as they balanced on stools. Their bright eyes were oblivious to the world around them--oblivious to the strange man watching them. It was voyeuristic, he knew, but he struggled with the jealousy that rose in him. These women were safe. Oh, a few miles down there’d be a shoot-out, but their lives would only skip a beat. It wouldn’t be redefined by what would happen. They’d be alive when the day was over.

It was like a poisonous gas that choked him. The more he saw of those around him, the more his grip on the steering wheel tightened. He’d never wanted to leave the underworld before. It’d been where he’d grown up, and it was what he knew how to do. But these people lived charmed lives. They were wealthy and happy and  _ oblivious _ to what New Meridian actually was.

Did he hate them for it? No, not when he reflected. He was envious--painfully, awfully envious. There wasn’t anything he could do to change that. The car’s clock flicked nearer and nearer to the attack. That was what mattered, more than his brooding.

The time stretched for a small eternity. Everything looked the same after a dozen turns: what was neon compared to neon? The well-dressed shadows looked alike beneath their umbrellas, and if he didn’t have a GPS, he didn’t doubt he’d have got lost. The rainy gloom blotted out the moon and stars. The fog that twisted through the alleys and streets had filtered into the car, the cold humidity almost oppressive.

Midnight came. It’d been inevitable. Time moved onward, uncaring of circumstance and relentless as any judge. He wanted to walk through the streets and listen to the cheerful thumping music pouring from every building. But instead he drove towards the mansion. It lacked the colour and glee of the downtown. It’d imbibed the dour grimness of a jail.

There were fewer guards now. A dozen and a half at most--armed, yes, and at their posts, but far from watchful. The Empire had been attacked, but the dead weren’t the guards’ friends, and who would attack the mansion in the downtown, surrounded by civilians? No, to them this was just another night. They were safer than anyone else in the Empire in their minds. They might be called out to help another location, but they could laugh and drink without fear.

Should Keith feel bad that they were going to die? He’d never felt awful over killing someone before. It was always deliberate and always planned. But this--there wasn’t an end goal. They didn’t expect to win. These people had families, even if they’d made the wrong choice in allegiances. But then he thought of the foundry, of the blood pooled on the floor, of the attack on Shiro, and suddenly he couldn’t find a sliver of regret as he flashed his headlights.


	10. Chapter 10

He started with a little red bomb. The components were encased in reshaped plastic he’d repurposed from a bucket. It looked, at a glance, like a plastic egg from Easter. What the observer wouldn’t know without opening it was that, with the right throw, it’d blow out the windows of any car. It felt cool in his hand, almost sticky from the humidity; he rubbed a thumb over the seams as he puttered down toward the mansion. 

There was no traffic to slow him. Swansong Grove was a quiet little street, after all, with nothing of note open past nine. Keith felt the guards’ eyes swivel to stare his car down. He drove like he was in his nineties: slow, careful, deliberate. The leather felt like ice against his palms. His mouth tasted of the gummy protein bar he’d choked down. He missed Shiro’s taste of smoke and ash.

He rolled his window down absently, as though he just wanted a breath of fresh air. He moved the bomb from his right to his left, slung his arm out into the rain, and pitched it over the the Jag’s roof. Force propelled it into the mansion’s security detail. It clattered against the ground like a discarded bottle.

One woman peered down at her feet. The red bomb had rolled right to the tips of her shiny leather boots. A second passed. The powders and liquids inside roiled and snapped. The woman nudged the ball with her foot. A gout of flame greeted her. 

The force threw her and her companions back, right into the iron fences. Screams rose. Keith picked up another bomb as he stomped on the pedal. The car surged into a charge. He launched another two bombs--one a black rectangle, another a blue egg. The rectangle shattered the security booth’s hardened glass; the egg bowled over those who’d hobbled to their ruined legs.

Two of the guards, unharmed, raised their guns to rain down hell on him. But a little red dot landed on their cheeks, like illuminated rouge. The moment Keith saw it, a bullet ripped through flesh and bone. The bullets tore through their cheek bones, into their sinuses, into the mouth, and then out. Gore splattered on to those nearby. He heard screams that were wet and ragged. He breathed deep, stomped on the brake, and twisted the car around. 

Shiro had killed three guards in the time it’d taken him to turn. It opened the way for an attack on the gate itself. He bolted down the street, right down the middle. In his hand, he cradled the king of the bombs he’d made. It was verdant green and decorated with a single sticker: the logo of the hardware store he’d bought it at. It was a small orange smiley face. He screwed up his left arm and let it sail.

It smacked against the iron gate. He heard the clank. He reached into his hoodie and tapped a scraped together button. A solid stomp on the gas sent the car flying by--just as the smiley bomb blew the gate off its hinges. Pieces of iron crashed into the stone buildings opposite--and others crashed into the Swansong Grove Mansion. Shards of glass sprayed out from the fenced off innards. Keith stomped the brake this time. The car screeched to a halt beside a postal box, opposite a closed cafe. As he stepped out, he looked up toward the hotel’s windows.

Half-dressed office jockeys gaped at the mangled entrance. A pair of women who were wrapped in each other’s arms pointed at him. In the shadowy street, though, they wouldn’t be able to see him. The cameras were a bigger worry, but if he was going to die, well. 

Not much mattered.

Shoes clicked against stone. Keith turned from the gate to see Shiro walking from the alley. He wore a flak jacket, and held another with a pair of guns. He offered a shotgun to Keith and the flak jacket. Keith took it, along with his small grab-bag of bombs. There were no sirens in the distance. Either the cops had decided that the underworld was none of their business, or Zachariah had decided he didn’t want them near his mansion. Who knew what outlaws they’d find hidden in his halls, after all?

Keith wished he had a shot of vodka to see him off. Instead, he holtstered his Beretta, hefted up the shotgun, and tried not to shudder as they passed through the warped gates. Corpses surrounded the entrance: some were moaning, creeping towards death; others were blown-apart, butchered displays of humanity. His shoes were stained with gore by the time they reached the cobbles surrounding Swansong Manson.

Swansong was surrounded by trees and carefully tended gardens. Orbs planted between the rows basked the plants in a gentle pale-sky light. The windows that’d once been open, spilling out golden beams that framed silhouettes of strangers, were now all closed. It had to be a lock down, he decided. Even with all the servants money could afford, no one could close them so quickly but a machine. 

The front door was bolted. Keith didn’t pause to question if it was a machine or person. He just stuck a bomb at the lock, pulled Shiro to the side, and detonated it. The hinges squealed at the force. When Shiro kicked it, the door wheezed open, revealing a dark interior.

It wasn’t the darkness of a power outage. It was the careful dark of a hunter’s cover. He didn’t doubt that Zachariah’s cronies wore night vision, or were being fed images from heat sensors. The only thing they could do against that was move fast and move behind cover. 

Shiro had directions from the cream of New Meridian. He’d asked about the amenities of the mansion as a snivelling sycophant attempting to cozy up to Zachariah. None of the socialites had realized he’d planned for anything but brown-nosing for one promotion or another at the mansion. Shiro knew the layout from a dozen accounts, and a steady hand had sketched out the layout. They moved towards the left, crouching behind furniture. 

Swansong was horseshoe-shaped. Everything curved from the foyer: the right led towards guest rooms and kitchens, while the left held things like a billiards room and ballroom. Zachariah would be on the left--and knowing his habits from the socialites, he’d be enclosed in the gallery or smoking room. With the lockdown, Keith wagered he’d have been brought into the basement--or taken straight to the helipad which was rumoured to exist beneath the well-groomed lawns.

As he hadn’t seen a helicopter take off while outside and the mansion wasn’t rumbling like a storm was coming, he assumed that the helicopter myth was either a reputational addition or non-viable. Maybe Zachariah really wanted to fight. And honestly, who were Keith and Shiro to deny him?

They dashed up the foyer’s stairs. Built from marble and lined with thin pillars, there was no place to duck behind. Speed carried them along. Keith braced himself for a rain of shrapnel or a easy bullet to the head. But they reached the top; Keith fumbled on the last step, leaving Shiro to grab him by the jacket and steady him.

The house was silent. Not even the whir of machines or the whine of light fixtures filled the room. To call it eerie put it mildly: it was almost threatening, like a predator lurked in the shadows, having scared the rest of the forest away. Keith shuffled along the bannister, his hand searching for the end. The first step echoed.

Something rustled. Clothing, perhaps, or even someone drawing a gun. It wasn’t Shiro: Shiro had frozen behind him. Keith took the initiative. He whirled around, lifting the shotgun up. His eyes carried an outline of what his brain said should be there, but he knew it was made up. He’d never been to the mansion after all. But he knew where Shiro was, and that was what mattered when he fired the first shot. Marble sprayed out in a cloud of dust. Keith ignored it in favour of pressing close to Shiro and aiming again. 

He almost expected Shiro to question him. How did he know anything was there, after all? But Shiro only pressed closer. Keith fired again. Bullets sparked against marble. A pair of eyes glinted--and metal flashed. Shiro’s weight slammed into Keith. They staggered into a fall together; the bullet sailed past Shiro’s head, its whistle almost deafening.

His back smacked into on to the floor; the railing clipped his shoulder. Shiro grabbed the railing. Keith heard metal against cloth. Two swift shots, forced to dull ‘thunks’, filled the hall. Someone gurgled from the ground a dozen feet away.

“... That could have ended badly,” Keith said. Shiro’s head pressed into Keith’s stomach. Keith reached up to the railing with his right hand. He clutched the shotgun in the other. The warm trickle of blood reached him just as he got up. He grimaced in the dark. It soaked through his canvas sneakers. It revealed two things: one, that there’d been more than one person who’d been shot, likely by Keith’s wild blasts; and two, the building angled down. What the use of that second fact was, well. It was going to be obvious when it came to throwing bombs. The last thing he wanted was to throw a bomb and have it roll right back to him. 

Keith winced as he edged along. “We need to give in to the inevitable, Shiro. You have a phone?”

Shiro laughed behind him, soft and tired. “And show where we are so we can get shot?”

“They already have night vision.”

“Then having a light won’t help. It’ll just make us pay more attention to what the phone shows--not when we need to hear.” Shiro sounded so damnably confident, Keith didn’t know what to say. It was true, in a way: the phone’s flashlight was decent, but it wasn’t perfect. It’d focus their gazes on the illuminated segments of the house. Instead of listening and waiting, they’d be gawking at a bookcase that’d looked suspicious as they turned. As they gawked, someone come from behind them. No, Shiro was right--leave the phone until an emergency and hope fewer people than they expected had night vision.

The next door was locked down. A single bomb dented the metal inside the wood; two more at the hinges, and it fell free. Shiro used the phone in a quick flash to gather an idea of where they were going. It revealed that the room was full of chairs and couches, lined with varnished bookshelves and windows with silken drapery. 

There was an open route through the furniture that led to the next door. Off from the foyer, he suspected Zachariah used it as a waiting room. Those deemed worthy would be taken deeper; those who failed would be served hors d’oeuvre and sent on their way. Shiro took hold of Keith’s hoodie’s hem as they both crouched and bolted through the room. 

After two more bombs at another door, they moved on. It was a study now, one from which a long hall stretched. There were other rooms--they didn’t take time to peek into them, but the doors were heavy and the flooring expensive. It didn’t even creak under their feet as they hurried through the hall. 

The bombs declared their position. It was a significant problem that they skirted until the hall’s far end. Two metal walls had clunked down, covering the split paths. It was a trap--one he realized when he heard another set of footsteps, these ones heavy military-grade boots marching down the hall.

There was no room for cover--the metal walls were flush with the hallway walls. He heard the click of a gun and stopped thinking. He raised his shotgun and fired three times around where the belly would be. The target managed to dodge: he heard them hit the wood, and Keith threw himself down diagonally, on to his knees. He slid a foot as he adjusted the gun and fired twice. Shiro fired behind him: they didn’t aim at the same space, instead corralling the attacker into a wall of bullets. 

Gore splashed in the dark. Bullets embedded themselves in walls. Keith shuddered at the sickening rattle that echoed. He swallowed, his mouth dry. A half dozen feet away was the corpse of the person he’d slaughtered. Who knew how many bullets had bored through the skin, into the organs, and out to the wood? 

He tried to distract himself by staggering back to the metal walls. The bag of bombs tied at his waist needed to be wrangled open before it produced the right bomb. “Left or right?” he asked Shiro. More footsteps were coming. Keith imagined Shiro’s thick brows furrowing. 

“Right,” was the answer. Keith slapped his rapidly-dwindling supply of bombs on to the wood, grabbed Shiro’s arm after one missed try, and yanked him down the hallway. HIs damp shoes wobbled over a puddle. It wasn’t far enough, he thought, but there were no open doors. The footsteps were still coming--Keith ducked to let Shiro take shots as he fumbled with a doorknob.

It wasn’t automated. That saved them. It was expensive to turn everything in a mansion as big as Swansong into Fort Knox. The servants didn’t have the time to lock everything either. The door swung open and Keith dragged Shiro in after him. He slammed the door shut, flipped the lock, and let the bomb go.

Foot soldiers in the hall yelled as the world shook. Metal shrieked. Puffs of dust came through the door’s cracks. Keith’s ears rang, but he went to the ground and tried to listen for retreating footsteps. A few bolted past, their boots thundering against the wood floors, but another came straight to their door. Just as they kicked it, Shiro shot them straight through the wood. It took three shots before the wood gave completely. By then the soldier had darted away, going further into the hall and waiting for them to leave.

It was easy to use the door as cover when they swung it open. After that, Keith rolled a bomb right down the slight incline. The man didn’t see it until Keith detonated it. Keith bolted out from cover. He didn’t care to fumble around to find the results of the bomb. Shiro followed him.

Down the right hallway, carpet appeared. Thick and luxurious, it felt more like a pelt than anything else. It muffled their steps. Another flash of the phone’s light, and the location was revealed. It was a library. Shelves that stretched to ballroom ceilings encircled a descending level filled with plush chairs and oak tables. 

On the centre table sat a computer. Its screen was a pleasant ocean blue. Keith ducked behind the nearest chair, but Shiro’s response differed. He walked toward the screen. The light lit his features, creating strange tenebrous mirages that twisting his expression to something unreadable. When he took the first stair down, Keith muttered a curse and hurried after. 

“You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?” Shiro asked. His voice carried the power that’d made him the leader of the Lions. “So you’d want to talk first. Say what you want, Zachariah.”

“I may be a gentleman,” Zachariah replied, “but I must say you’re rude, Shirogane.” The blue vanished, replaced by the grim, wizened face of Zachariah Daniels. “You invade my home and then dismiss me like an insect? Sendak always told me you were arrogant--too confident for the business we’re in, really, as though you’re immortal. I’d hoped being blindsided might awaken a sense of vulnerability, but all you and your lieutenant did was drive across the country.”

Keith wasn’t watching Zachariah. He scanned the room they were in, searching for lurking assassins. Shiro spoke carefully. “The docks are closed to you. The East Coast wants nothing to do with your enterprises, and the other gangs in New Meridian won’t be pushed around for long. You’re consolidating--but part of consolidating is management of risk. And right now? Everything you’re doing is weighing the dice to a bad end.”

“You think words will frighten me?” From the corner of Keith’s eye, Zachariah smiled. “I know risk, Shirogane. I’ve handled it all my life, like a snake in a church. I’ve never been bitten--and I won’t be by you. I came, instead, to make an offer. You’ve shown ingenuity, though admittedly you’ve lacked wisdom. Walk out the front door and I won’t have you killed. Go to Europe. Never look back. There’s nothing for you here.”

Nothing but revenge. Zachariah didn’t understand that. Oh, Keith knew he retaliated. Zachariah didn’t let things go unremarked upon: every slight against the Empire was a slight against Daniels. But he didn’t understand revenge when you had nothing left. To Zachariah, there’d always been  _ something _ to lose, and wouldn’t anyone try to protect that?

Keith didn’t know if he pitied the man for his ignorance or envied him. 

Shiro smiled. “We didn’t come here,” he said, “to leave. We’ll bury ourselves with you, Daniels. Hold tight.”

Daniels sighed. “Then you’ve chosen to be difficult. I can admire your loyalty, Shirogane, even if I question your intelligence. None of this was necessary. I want you to remember that as your lover dies.”

Keith stiffened but said nothing. Shiro jerked back; his lips curled, revealing cloud-white teeth. “You’re accusing me--”

“Of loving him?” Zachariah’s dark eyes glinted. “Now, now, Shirogane, you’ll hurt his feelings if you deny it. Did you really think you could hide this from me? I knew your proclivities long before I decided to attack. Just as you should have known what I was like--more than what gossip you could glean from the flapping mouths of flatterers.”

Shiro spoke carefully.“I know what you’re like.” Zachariah snorted softly, too well-bred for a full-throat laugh. “You think you’re a mystery to anyone?” Shiro’s voice gained strength as he went, turning from a deadly, flat voice to something carrying a lion’s snarl. “You crawled out of a withered plantation to the cities. There, you tried to make something out of a well-bred name and the last few dollars to your name. You threw your weight around. Made some enemies--sucked up to the right people too. Oh, you built something, Daniels. If things weren’t like this, maybe I’d have admired you.”

Shiro shook his head, a faint smile taking form. It carried a razor edge to it. “But then you came out West. You thought you’d make a little Empire here, didn’t you? We were here, though, so we needed to go. You bided your time, smiled for the photo-ops with Allura, and then you struck just when we thought we’d won.” Shiro shrugged. “That isn’t going to save you now. You might know who I bring to bed, Daniels, but you don’t know how to dodge a bullet between the eyes.”

Daniels stared out from the screen. His lips were thinned, and his skin ghost-pale. Fury danced in his eyes like roaring flames. “The sooner you’re dead,” he said, “the sooner I can forget you ever existed. Come find me, Shirogane, Kogane--let this be done.”

The computer’s screen went dark. It plunged them into blackness. They stood in silence before Keith reached out to where he remembered Shiro standing. His hand landed on a slumped shoulder. 

“He’s going to die before we do,” Keith said. It sounded like an empty victory.

Shiro laughed, soft as Daniels had. “Cold comfort.” Silence stretched. When Shiro broke it, it was with a raised flashlight from the phone and a quiet, stark voice. “We should have run for it.”

Doubt always came in the dark. People who could lead armies shivered in the cold night, plagued by doubts that’d wash away at the first ray of sun. The dark stood sharp against what the victim planned to do: for Shiro, it was what could have been if not for revenge. For a general, it was the coming deaths that’d stain her hands red. Everyone had a cross to bear.

Keith didn’t resent Shiro for it. He’d agreed after all. Whatever might have been, Keith had let it slip from his grasp. Revenge was revenge. Whether it tasted cold and sour or rich and warm as he died, it didn’t matter. Choices had been made. Daniels could offer them a route back--but who’d trust a man like Daniels to keep his word? And what would the memory of the Kingdom be if they fled?

People dreamed of finding their cause in life. For some, it was caring for the homeless. For others, it was treating the sickly poor. For Keith and Shiro, it was the Kingdom. Nothing else. Not even each other.

_ But you followed him because you love him _ , a traitorous voice whispered. It was true, sure. But that didn’t take away what the Kingdom had meant to him. It’d been a… family? That didn’t sound right. He didn’t care about Lance, and he only passingly knew Pidge. Hunk was someone he could eat at a diner with, but he wouldn’t have followed Hunk into Swansong. The Lions hadn’t been a family. He’d admired Allura, had thought her pull and brilliant mind worth aligning himself with, but she was one reason among many. The main reason, the clarion call that’d pulled him from every other place he could have hidden in the world, was right beside him. Shiro had wanted to avenge the Lions and Kingdom. Shiro hadn’t seen another option--and Keith, the idiot, hadn’t presented one.

They could have been in Paris. Maybe Rome or Prague. Shiro had another fifty years in him; Keith had a few more. They could have forgotten New Meridian. It was like nothing else on Earth, but was that worth dying for? The lights, the rain, the crowded streets, the sodden, drooping awnings, even the laughing, whispering, bright-eyed people. New Meridian possessed a life that wasn’t American: it was everything from everywhere, a city-state for a new era. It had more people than most countries. And its people came from  _ everywhere _ . 

Samoa, Japan, Thailand, Bangladesh, Moldova, Nigeria, Kenya--he’d met people from every country he could name. They came to do business, whether it was to make a fortune in business, chase stardom as a singer, or experience a city with a life all of its own. The Kingdom had almost ruled it.  _ Almost _ . 

Zachariah Daniels had taken that away. To Shiro, that was a crime that even exceeded what had happened to the Hacketts. Shiro marched away from the computer, intent on finding Daniels and finishing this. Then they’d die, because there was no rescue after this. If Daniels didn’t manage to take them out as he died, his soldiers would do the job for him as Keith and Shiro left the mansion.

Shiro opened a door. Gentle light spilled in from a crimson corridor. He paused and looked over his shoulder toward Keith. Shadows cloaked his face, but Keith imagined a raised brow and faint smile. Shiro wouldn’t stop him if he wanted to leave. Keith knew that. It’d rip his heart from his chest, but he’d watch Keith leave. 

Was this the doubt Daniels had wanted to sow? Keith shook his head. Shiro came before anything else. What did he have to go back to anyway? To LA, where the Morettis would ask what happened to their loaned soldiers? To Clarence, where he was known as the troublemaking delinquent, where the rest of the Dead Man’s Hand would wonder what happened to Josiah--and kill Keith when they found the answer?

Maybe he’d die beside Shiro. They’d both go slow and gentle, bleeding out as they pressed against each other, sharing a dwindling warmth. That was a good way to go, he thought, so long as Daniels’ body was nearby. 

He went through the door. Shiro followed behind, closing it with a gentle click. The hall itself looked normal: plush crimson carpet coated the floor, while the walls were a pale cream, interrupted by elegant portraits of people dressed in lace and silks. Whether they were imitations of originals  or worth a fortune, Keith couldn’t tell--at least until they passed a painting of a small family.

The father was tall, dwarfing his wife and child. He had broad shoulders that refused to sink under the weight of his personality and duties. His skin stretched over wide features, as though it struggled to cover all his frame. His clothes were not the puffy-sleeved or ruffled collars of the other paintings. It was a fine suit, black and cotton, though it had a dated silhouette. 

The mother was a slim figure, almost svelte. Her skin was darker, rosier, and her long hair had been tied back in a severe bun. Her eyes were clinical and sharp, matching her pencil skirt and blouse, all well-made but belonging more on a strict teacher than a family portrait.

Then there was the child. Sweet-faced, smiling hesitantly, dressed in a smaller suit than his father, Keith recognized him on sight, even if the portrait had to be decades old. Lothar huddled between his parents’ knees. His hands were obediently crossed--likely an artistic liberty by the painter. Lother’s gold eyes stared out at onlookers, but Keith got the sense, by the tilt of Lothar’s head, that he was looking up to his parents.

How things had changed. The sweet if hesitant expression on his face was so different from the cold arrogance that distorted otherwise handsome features. Lothar had been a favoured child: Zachariah would never have put in the portrait otherwise. But bitterness had come; it’d destroyed and warped things, and now Zachariah had his own flesh and blood to thank for the decimation of the Empire’s upper echelons. And if he died, he’d have Lothar to thank for that too.

They took an easing left, one that drifted along a corridor sided by shuttered windows. Keith swore he heard the sorrow-calls of birds and the laughter of those oblivious as to what was happening inside. The police weren’t there yet. It was when they faced Zachariah that they’d come: Zachariah would need the cops to stay away until he’d finished, nod along with his story, and clean up the bodies.

There were little tables of clocks and flowers. It was a collection, he thought--everything looked expensive and finely tended. A pair of orchids intwined, a rich royal purple that shimmered in the dim light. Their footsteps stained the crimson something far darker, far  _ grimier _ . The stench of shit and ruined bodies followed them. It didn’t even have the sweet scent of rot: none of the bodies had been dead long enough.

The hall ended at a large grandfather clock crafted from mahogany and a tall door varnished red. There was an intercom to the side and a series of buttons--codes to access the inside, Keith thought, or maybe just to call for Zachariah who had to be within. Keith looked around the hall, but there were no places to hide. The planters were sometimes wide, but rarely tall; the furniture had gaps that could be peeked through.

They reached the dor. Illuminated numbers blinked on the panel, waiting for servants to arrive with food or escorted business partners to be ferried in. How thick was the door ? It looked solid, and others had contained a thick sheet of metal to prevent anyone from breaking through. Keith glanced at a grim Shiro.

“You think he’s inside,” Keith murmured, “or do you think he’s down another hall?”

Shiro shook his head. “It leads too well. He wants us here--he’d have sent soldiers to cut us off and direct us if he didn’t.” Shiro reached up and knock at the door with a single knuckle. The dull sound revealed two things: one, that the door was solid; and two, that the metal panel had either been surrounded with glue, or melted into the chemically sealed wood.

The former meant nothing. The latter, though, was a problem. If the wood had been treated in a dozen fire retardants, sealants, and asbestos as the still-malleable metal panel was inserted, Keith didn’t know what his bombs would do. Force was force, sure, but that didn’t mean anything if there were several layers of metal in the door, all solid as diamond. He scrutinized the door’s casing moulding. The door was only in a slight recess. He knocked at the walls. They were just as solid.

“Shoot the walls,” Keith said. 

Shiro didn’t question it. A solid four bangs issued, though they didn’t echo, not with the soft carpeting to absorb the sound’s force. Metal clanged against metal. When Keith jabbed a hand into the still-warm holes of the wall, it went six inches deep before it fit something solid as a brick. Presumably, the metal was sandwiched dead centre between the drywall. 

How thick was the metal? It was likely similar to the windows’ shutters. He marched over to the closest window and leaned in. The metal had slid perfectly into the sill--the sill that couldn’t be more than an inch. So, in total, the wall around the door was a little than a foot.

The door sat in a generous recess. If it was mirrored the same on the other side, it meant the door was a solid four inches. It was the kind of deduction that he’d become used to making. If you played with bombs long enough, the brain ferreted out a way to maximize their potential. Keith placed bombs strategically.

First, there were two on each side of the door--inside the drywall, pressed against the lock and drilled-in hinges. After, he put a garland at the door’s bottom and some along the middle. There was, he thought, enough explosives to thoroughly total a car. Whether that’d get them through the door, he didn’t know. 

As he worked, Shiro pecked at the keypad. The typical numbers were run through--marriage dates, birthday, dates where GalTech had had notable victories--but all the keypad issued were faint buzzes. 

“Stop that before you set off an alarm,” Keith said.

Shiro tapped at the panel with a crooked index finger. “Do you really think Zachariah would have a computer-generated code?” Keith looked up from where he was tying a pair of IEDs together and raised a lone brow. Shiro sighed. “Yeah, he would. Where are we hiding when this goes off?”

Keith pursed his lips as he pressed another bomb’s sticky back to the tiled door. “Check the side rooms. One of them has to be open.”

One was--unfortunately, it was only a short distance away, and it opened into a side closet packed with cleaning supplies. Shiro lugged the weapons into it. When Keith finished, he hurried after Shiro. Together, they pushed a janitor cart in front of the door. Keith cradled a detonator in his hand. It was warm and damp from sweat. Keith found himself absently rubbing his thumb against the button. From the corner of his eye, he caught Shiro smirking as he looked at Keith’s hand. He suspected he didn’t want to know what Shiro was thinking. Adrenaline was addling both their minds. 

The button clicked. For a moment, the air was still and silent. The pause stretched like twine; Keith’s eyes met Shiro’s, fire against the implacable force of gravity, and then the twine snapped. Force roared outward from the door. From the sides, shrapnel ripped through the walls and windows. From the front, wood ripped like paper. He heard shards smash against the shutters. A few clipped the door, rattling it like they were in a winter’s storm. One stabbed into the door, its tip quivering in rage as it hit the janitor’s cart.

His ears rang in the sudden silence. He glanced to Shiro who looked just as thunderstruck. Keith’s mouth tasted of dust, blood, and something acrid. He swallowed it down and quietly pushed the janitor cart out of the way. Shiro went to the door, inching it open to peer out at the dark hall.

But it wasn’t dark anymore. Light spilled out from the now-open room. It wasn’t the sterile light of lamps and computer screens, but the gentle glow of a moon that had taken hold of the sky. It splashed silver-white light on rich damasks and woods. It glinted off varnished surfaces, spiralled through expensive glass, and landed on deep pile carpets. 

Nobody waited inside. That didn’t surprise Keith. Zachariah wanted them in his lair so long as they’d lost most of their explosives. The closer they were to him, the better his claim of self-defense. Keith hefted the shotgun, reloading it with practiced motions as Shiro watched both sides of the hall. 

Keith frowned at the black marks on the silver barrel. “He’s going to be waiting.”

“Probably with a few helping hands,” Shiro said. His voice was light as spring air. “Daniels doesn’t play fair, after all.”

They were going to die, Keith reminded himself. It didn’t matter if there was extra help, so long as Zachariah was dead and his building shattered. Sure, Honora might take the reins or Lothar might push her out to take command, but it’d been Zachariah who’d ordered the attacks. It’d been Zachariah that’d bled the Kingdom white. 

There was no door to close to block off any approaching attackers from behind. Instead, Keith let Shiro stand guard as he pushed a behemoth of a dresser into the doorway. If it came to it, they’d hear it crash to the floor. 

The area was a series of bedrooms connected by arching doorways. The one they were in was untouched, likely deemed too close to the rabble for habitation. More expensive paintings hung on the walls. Their flaked faces and golden plates declared them museum-worthy. There were even sculptures: a fawn had been frozen mid-jump, her legs splayed and her ears perked as her eyes gazed into nothingness.

Keith edged toward the windows. Rain still drizzled on the world outside, and the moon hung low, peering between smoggy clouds. The rain and light sketched out a courtyard. Swansong encircled gardens and fountains, but the part nearest Zachariah’s rooms was sheltered by thick trees and bushes. 

The inner courtyard was… private. Not just functionally, but in its design. The fountain was decorated in marble accents, yet built from obsidian; the white and black looked less like a checkerboard and more like the swirling mix of paints. The fountain’s figure was an archer, classically dressed in old Grecian clothes. Keith squinted at the handsome features and curling hair. He imagined it was spun gold, a lighter shade than the archer’s skin. But that was in his mind: Zachariah hadn’t painted the figure, just like he’d never touched the rest of the courtyard with a lick of paint.

The bench was marble and dark wood. The cobbles were little squares arranged as tiles. Even the bushes looked black and heavy in the moonlight. The only colour apparent in the space was that of the gardens. Flowers ringed the courtyard in beautiful shades of red and purple; they were dark in the night, but the petals touched by moonlight glimmered with dew.

It was a private paradise. But when had it last been used? Keith didn’t doubt it was tended daily, but did Honora or Zachariah have a single inclination to enjoying life that  _ didn’t _ revolve around numbers and blood?

Keith knew he was a hypocrite in a lot of ways. His pleasures were rainy days with Shiro, food, the feel of a new gun in his palm, and crossing the skyways at a clip, the police tailing behind them, determined to maybe  _ finally _ putting them away for what they did. The thrill of knowing that the cops would neither catch nor be able to charge them added to the glee fuelled by the wheel he gripped. Speed, sex, food, and violence: Zachariah probably called them the opiates of the masses, but to Keith, they were everything. What was the point of living if you couldn’t fly down a road, wind in the hair and the whistle of passing cars in your ears?

The bedrooms felt more like a crypt. Everything was so dark, it seemed to swallow the moonlight. More statues and paintings filled the adjoining rooms; their forms were twisted things, as though the artists who’d done them had lost their minds a little more with every stroke. Keith eyed a malformed fairy that danced entangled with vines. The legs bent in ways they shouldn’t. The wings had too many dimensions to them, to where they almost hurt to look at. And the eyes were empty of love and joy--of life itself.

Whoever collected the statues, there was something  _ wrong _ about them. Keith tried to ignore how his skin crawled. Shiro pulled closer to him through every room they passed. Keith listened for the dresser’s crash or the light footsteps of someone lying in wait, but there was nothing. They passed five rooms that joined together like a Tetris puzzle. The openings to the next room was never in the same place; there was no ability to look down from the entrance and see the entire little complex. 

It was in the final room that the moonlight gave to fluorescent. The room expanded into a library-sized atrium; plants filled the rows, soaking in moonlight as books and computers huddled between them. Light bulbs reflected in the glass. Keith glanced up at a dark sky. All around them, in the distance, were towers and skyscrapers. The strange world they found themselves in smelled of elm blossoms.

Faint violins played. They echoed in the high ceiling, reverberating and gaining deep notes that were headier than wine. Footsteps joined the leisurely croon.

“I won’t congratulate you for making it,” Zachariah said. Yet despite the well-lit room, Keith couldn’t spot him. The man’s deep voice echoed; its rumble reminded Keith of shifting mountains. “There was hardly much resistance.”

Shiro stood still as Keith raised his weapon. He didn’t know what to aim it at; the barrel’s point drifted back and forth, searching. Shiro placed a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “You still want to talk?”

Keith glanced at Shiro from the corner of his eye. Shiro was smiling--nothing large, mostly lopsided, but he was smiling. Zachariah seemed to collect his thoughts. The silence stretched out. Keith’s skin itched. 

“Not particularly.” Something clicked. The hair at the back of Keith’s neck rose. “I’m no movie villain, Shirogane. While I admire both your skills, you’ve invaded my home. There isn’t much else to speak of, is there?”

Keith’s grip on his shotgun tightened. The click had meant something. What it was, he didn’t know. So he spoke. “What about Lothar?”

Silence. “What do you mean?”

Shiro looked at him, but Keith gave a small shake of the head.  _ Keep looking _ . 

Keith forced his body to relax. “You think we did this on our own?” Keith huffed out a faint laugh. “How’d we know where your generals were meeting? How’d we get out? We went to your party, Zachariah. Even had some of your food. Then your son came to us and he told me and Shiro how to kill you.”

Silence. Another click. “You expect my fury. What will you do when you don’t get it?”

Keith tensed.  _ I don’t need your fury _ , he thought.  _ I need you distracted _ . “You’ll kill us both, I guess. But you won’t get out unscathed. Two young men, both armed--you’re playing a game you can’t win. Wouldn’t it be easier to just give in?”

“Give in?” Zachariah sounded amazed. “Do you think I’ll hold still for your knife because you asked?” He laughed now, slightly crazed. “This--you want to fight me with the element of surprise. You don’t realize I won’t fall for it. Let us finish this.”

But it was too late. A bang echoed; glass shattered as lights went out. Electricity crackled, and Keith saw from the corner of his eye sparks. Glass shards landed on the atrium’s floor. Shiro lunged forward, charging towards where they’d heard Zachariah. Keith fired into the other end’s dark; he aimed away from Shiro’s crouched form and prayed nothing ricocheted badly.

Lights flashed back on. It showed Shiro--and nothing else. It struck Keith, then, that Zachariah wasn’t in the atrium. He’d never been. Shiro skid to a halt. “You got the detonator?” Keith asked.

Shiro shrunk down, pressing his back against a planter. “It was on the left side of the roof. Get down too.” Keith squatted down. “Sniper?”

Keith scanned the wall opposite for a red dot and trusted Shiro to keep a watch on them both. “Nothing visible. He’s got to be watching from  _ somewhere _ \--” Keith twisted around to peek out the window behind them. Something gleamed in the moonlight, winking like an eye. 

Bingo. In the courtyard,” he said. “The bastard’s in the bushes, waiting.” Or at least among the trees. It was smarter than having confronted them in the atrium, and why had either of them thought Zachariah would play fair? He wanted to come out alive, after all. 

Shiro leaned in--not to look at Keith, but to look past hiim. “I didn’t see stairs. Did you?”

“None.” Keith chewed the inside of his cheek. “It’s two stories from the bedrooms--three from here. He’ll be shooting as we go.”

Zachariah sighed over the speaker system; Shiro spoke before Zachariah could comment. “Not a soft landing, Keith.” Yet he looked pensive. “Down and down?”

Keith’s lips quirked up. “If someone’s holding the rope.” Shiro smirked. That was his answer, then. Keith twisted on to his feet, still hunched, and began a semi-sprint from the atrium into the dark rooms. Moonlight glinted off his weapons. Lights flickered in front of him, the moonlight bouncing from metal to glass to mirrors. 

There were no visible stairs that went down. Oh, there were small steps to the atrium, but nothing leading to the bottom floor. ‘Down and down’ Shiro had said. It meant to leap for a tree, then a leap to the ground; to hold the rope was to judge the distance high above and keep an eye out for any snipers.

It was a typical method. They’d done it before--including with Shiro as the jumper and Keith as the watchman. But the shooter had never been anyone with a big name. How good was Zachariah with a gun? This was something Keith should have asked about earlier. Too little, too late, he thought as he crept up to a window overlooking the courtyard. Rain beaded on the delicate glass. 

There wouldn’t be time to inch it open. Zachariah had the advantage: he huddled in the shadows, while moonlight would reveal anyone near the windows. Keith needed to get out fast--no opening the window, no fussing with locks or aiming; out the window, shattered glass, and hopefully Shiro shouting directions from above, rifle in hand, eyes watching for the gleam of a gun. Keith breathed once, twice, and lunged upward. 

It wasn’t a ‘risk’. It was idiocy; it was the hope of the desperate slammed into cutting shards, the only cushioning his ratty damp clothes. He held the gun out. The metal crashed through the glass first, taking the initial force head-on. It didn’t protect him from the rest, but it lightened the blow. Glass smashed around him. Large shards dug into exposed flesh, while medium shards snagged on his clothes. And the smallest ones, the little grains, pushed into wounds and threatened to slip into his eyes. He squeezed them shut. Grit scraped against his face. Some flew into his nose. But the sudden change in gravity ripped away his attention from the glass.

Down, down, down. The force of his jump propelled him forward--right into an overhanging willow tree whose branches lashed at the cobbles. The willow bent under his sudden weight; he grappled for purchase to keep himself from falling straight down. His arms yanked in their sockets. Below, someone fired in his direction. Only the leaves’ shroud protected him.

Shiro fired back. “Nine by the bushes!”

Nine o’clock, hidden within what he remembered as white rose bushes. Keith let his weight swing down, into the tangled branches; he released the leaves and grasped bark. His gun fell to the ground, a necessary byproduct of not having three arms. He sent out a small prayer that Shiro was covering him really,  _ really _ well.

A bullet ricocheted from the cobbles and whizzed past his ears. He almost let go of the branches in shock. Even with his grip, he tumbled from his perch. Scattered limbs whacked into wood; only his white-knuckled hands kept him from smashing his face into the wet stone. He was dangling like a pig on a meathook, waiting for his butcher to attend to him. He needed cover, and he needed it before Shiro had to reload. He let go of the branch. 

His legs hung free ten feet above the ground. He huddled in on himself as he plummeted. It passed in less than a second; a branch nailed him in the head and whacked his side, but what mattered more was the impact when he landed in a roll. The roll diverted the force from cracking open his skull or breaking his legs, but the force made his entire body shudder, even as he got to his feet and sprinted for cover. His wounds burned.

The gun waited for someone to claim it. Keith didn’t doubt Zachariah’s gun muzzle pointed straight at the shotgun’s prone form. Did he even need it, though? The Beretta pressed against his stomach, short-barrelled and solid. The cold metal hid inside a leather shoulder holster. If he got close, that’d be the end of Zachariah. It’d possibly be Keith’s end too, but they hadn’t come to Swansong to live.

Keith hunched down as he wove between bushes. Falling and fleeing had sent his senses into disarray, but he guessed where Shiro looked out and went from there. Zachariah was forty feet away--Keith had leapt into two o’clock, and that put him almost right across from Zachariah’s position. He breathed in a deep breath before he snapped his mouth shut and began to sprint. 

Thorns caught him. They jostled his clothes, sending free the specks of glass that coated him like snow. Sharp pain danced over his skin; droplets of blood would decorate the bushes, and only the washing away of dew would clean the plants. Across from where Keith ran, Shiro exchanged fire with Zachariah. Both of them knew each other’s positions; it helped neither of them when Shiro had stone cover and Zachariah the cloak of shadows. 

Wet leaves brushed against his jeans, turning them sodden. His heart thundered and clenched by turns. All he needed to do was put his gun at the back of Zachariah’s throat or flush him from the bushes. But Zachariah had to know he was coming. When a bullet ripped through a bush behind him, he knew Zachariah had decided to be proactive. 

Keith slipped deeper into the brush. Like a tiger, he’d come from behind. Zachariah wouldn’t be watching from the back: he’d be obsessed with the sides, convinced Keith would spring out from the dark bushes to catch him off-guard. But Keith knew that Zachariah knew, and he prayed that Zachariah didn’t know that Keith knew what he knew--the panic at the base of his neck throbbed into something almost-painful. If he breathed slowly, his mind would calm, and with his mind calm, he could slink between willows and elms, his shoes pressing against storm-torn leaves and frail twigs.

Where was the freedom of knowing he would die? It was hard to find as cold winds whistled through the courtyard. The further he went out from the sheltered haven, the more he saw how the wind twisted and raged, coiling into a powerful strike that cut through his wet clothes. The moonlight danced over ponds that rippled under the lashing blows of wind. A willow’s branches dipped into the cold water and bobbed under the ripples’ touch. 

He threw himself back into the dark. His foot caught on a root. It sent him into a stagger. Leaves slipped beneath his grip, slicked by dew and rain. A thorn burrowed into the meat of his palm. He swallowed down a sharp cry. Two guns fired, drowning out the brush’s rustle. Where was he in the clock? He’d passed twelve, he knew that, and rounded the curve from eleven down to ten. One hour left--he’d guessed the distance as forty feet, and had started at two. Quick math said it was eight feet a segment, but nothing was ever so neat in guesses.

He tried to listen for the shots, but the sound shattered the silence, leaving shards of confusion in its wake. There was no way to rightly pinpoint the location in the chaos. All he could was crouch down, tear the gun free, and sprint along the rows of brush, searching for a telltale glint. 

It came as a muzzle’s flash. Zachariah had aimed again into the woods and fired blindly. The gun’s crack almost deafened him, but he saw sparks. Was it overheating? It didn’t matter. Keith slowed from a sprint to a light-footed jog. Zachariah hunched in a leafy bush, behind a statue of lovers dancing. He aimed between their entangled limbs, up toward the window Shiro waited from.

He tightened his grip on the gun. If he could fire it right, it’d split Zachariah’s flesh apart and tear into his neck’s ligaments. Arteries would burst. The lovers would be red as their thundering hearts, and the cobble stained for the rest of time. He’d heard stories, once, of how blood never truly washed out. After cleaning dozens of crime scenes, he knew the smell always lingered.

Iron. Copper. Something sweet; something rotten. The fetid smell curled in the nose and refused to leave. Keith breathed in the scent of rain and earth, crouched, and pounced. 

Gunpowder filled his nostrils. That, and the scent of pure heat. The shadowed figure in front of him became clear the closer he came. Zachariah wore an elegant suit, one of charcoal and white, and tools surrounded him. He clutched a rifle in his hands. A headset hooked around his ears, funnelling his purring voice into the atrium. 

Zachariah didn’t turn around. Keith never saw the whites of his eyes or the panic that could have twisted his mouth. The shadow stood stock still, oblivious to the predator at his back. Keith aimed his Beretta at Zachariah’s neck. Its brother, Shiro’s Glock, waited two storeys up and a world away. 

Flesh parted with a  _ thunk _ . Zachariah’s breathing turned wet and ragged. Tendons fluttered between the gaping wound. The pistol shuddered in his hand. The movement spread into his own bones, creating a twinge that made his fingers itch. Keith smelled copper, sweetest copper; he breathed it in and fired into Zachariah’s cheset. It stoppered the sickening moan that Zachariah had wanted to be a cry for help.

Keith watched as the rifle dropped from Zachariah’s hands. Its sharp clatter overshadowed Zachariah’s gasps. Keith stepped aside as Zachariah turned, reaching out for something--some _ one _ . Pale hands grasped but found nothing but shadow. Blood splashed down. In the darkness, it looked like liquid space. Some of it splattered on to his sneakers.

Keith looked up. Shiro looked down from the windows. Moonlight turned his golden skin sallow. Shadows danced over the glass. Keith thought Shiro was smiling, but he didn’t know for sure. Almost as a reply, he smiled up as Zachariah bled out at his feet, twitching and spasming. In the distance, the sirens started again. 

It was a failsafe. What trigger had Zachariah left to tell the cops to come? The sirens were distant, far away enough to pretend they were still doing their jobs. But Keith--Keith tasted freedom. Zachariah was dead. The Empire would fall to infighting as New Meridian worked to overthrow the vulnerable Imperial rule. That was victory. It was sweeter than Zachariah’s blood.

But what if they could live? Shiro waited for him. The path was blown open. Both of them knew New Meridian. If they got out, they could pay off cops to destroy any tapes. This didn’t need to be the end.

Shiro stood at the house’s entrance to the courtyard, and this didn’t need to be the end.


	11. Chapter 11

Rain crashed against the metal roof. It sounded worse than the thunder. Droplets rolled down the furrows, splattering on to a stucco balcony. The blankets were light on his body; the cool winds that slithered into the room rustled the pale blue fabric. Keith pressed closer against the warm body beside him. Firm muscle gave way under his weight, cushioning him from sharp bones and crooked springs. 

“I’m not a pillow,” his cushion said. Keith pressed his cheek against the taut skin. “Keith, please--” He cut off in a laugh as Keith began to press light kisses along the dip of his ribcage. “You’re in that kind of mood, then?”

Keith frowned into Shiro before he pulled back. The ceiling above was simple white. A single skylight had been covered by a pinned black cloth. Rain pooled on it--he didn’t know how many inches of water waited for the glass to crack. He liked to think they were safe below it. 

Shiro nudged him with a shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Keith sat up and ruffled his hair, trying to turn the bedhead to something tousled. “The others didn’t wake us up.”

Shiro sat up beside him. His fingers scratched at his chin. Bristly dark hair spotted the prominent, sharp bone. “We  _ did _ just move in. Lance is probably sleeping in.”

And Pidge, along with Hunk, would be exhausted from organizing new security measures. Their new building was near the docks, but further north than where they’d once been. They were tucked along the pier’s stores and restaurants. The world smelled of food and salty sea, and Keith breathed in the scent of cooked fish. His mouth watered as his stomach clenched. He hadn’t eaten in a day. 

“The Ethiopian place does takeout, right?” Keith frowned out at the open balcony. “I don’t want to put on a suit.”

Shiro laughed. “You might have to if you want in,” he said dryly. “This entire area’s built from money.”

It wasn’t the docks Keith knew. Oh, the old apartments had been upper-middle class; going around in shorts and flip-flops would earn the wearer sneers. But Bruckman’s Pier was a several mile long row of buildings pressed backs-together in the middle of the pier. On the right side’s row, there’d be a restaurant; behind, on the left, a designer shoe store would be bustling, ferrying wealthy socialites through their doors and piling them down with boxes and bags. 

Bruckman’s Pier was for new money and the younger side of New Meridian’s old blood. The downtown had once housed the Daniels and Altheas--but the Pier was new, not the heart of the city but an artery. It was, though, far more defendable and just as luxurious, if more modern.

The sound of distant ships filled the grey world outside. Keith stepped out of bed. His low-slung boxers felt rough against his skin. Shiro reached out. He trailed fingers down Keith’s spine, as though marvelling at every bump. Tension melted from Keith’s shoulders. His eyelids drooped as exhaustion tugged him back toward bed. But it was the first night in the condominium. He needed to see what it looked like in the grey-gild of morning’s birth.

His skin prickled as cold air touched him. He breathed it in and tasted not loam, but sea mixing with something musky, something like what they’d done in the dark. It was… different. Sharply so. It woke him from his daze, but he didn’t turn away. The wood floor felt like ice. Droplets dotted the edge between the varnished wood and the smoothed stucco. 

The world outside had filled with strange mists and grey light. He looked out from a dozen stories above the ground and ocean, but he saw the white foam of crashing waves and the flecks that sprayed into the air. Below, workers scampered around, filing into their buildings and readying for a day of crushing retail survival.

It was… calm. Despite the wind, despite the hive humming to life below, despite the waves. This was what he’d wanted, in the end. To return to what had once been. Zachariah Daniels was dead. The Kingdom was alive. Honora was abroad, fleeing to regather what strength she had left, and Lothar was back in Los Angeles.

And the Empire was dying. It’d be gone within the month. They’d cut off the hydra’s heads. There were no leaders in the country, let alone the city, and its soldiers were scattering. Allura’s return from hiding had been the final blow. Nobody had known it but Coran, but she’d been dug out from the mansion and spirited away to Canada. Althea’s pharmaceuticals had ensured there’d be no sign of what she’d endured.

It couldn’t cure her fiery, searing rage. Zachariah’s death had helped. Keith didn’t think anything would cure it, not when she saw the rubble that’d been her family legacy.

_ It could have been worse _ Keith would think every time someone became angry. People were dead and others changed, but Keith, Shiro, Allura, the other Lions--they were still here. Keith had walked into Swansong believing everyone would die, and he’d climbed out the back beside Shiro, cops on their heels. 

The moment the media arrived, everyone on the planet knew what had happened. Oh, they might not know the details and nuances, but just like Allura Althea had been attacked by unknown forces, Daniels had been too. It was a mystery that’d never be solved. The police would quietly shelve the case and never look into it again.

Things were done. Finished. The Kingdom’s rise would continue, unhindered by the Empire. It was what they’d all wanted.

But Keith found it hard to care too deeply about it. What mattered more--more than the new building, more than the grey-lit sky or crashing waves--was the man behind him tangled in sheets. Keith glanced over his shoulder. Shiro watched him from the bed, a light smile curling his lips to something inviting. They’d travelled three decades and thousands of miles, and they’d still ended up in New Meridian.

Really, though. Was there any other place he’d rather be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the millennia-long wait! RL's been pretty interesting. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking with the story and reading. <3 It was a blast to write this, and I feel like I gained a lot of experience in doing so. I hope all of you enjoyed the story!


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